


What Comes After

by megazorzz



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Betrayal, Big Spoilers!, Canon-Typical Violence, Classism, Cobbled together wasteland family, Confusing relationships, Confusing temporality, Dysfunctional Family, Gun Violence, How can safe sex exist in Fallout?, Implied/Referenced Slavery, Institute blithely unaware as always, Kids with guns, M/M, MacCready as a dad, Male Sole Survivor - Freeform, More like a Fix-More, Murder for Progress?, Nora/Sole Survivor - Freeform, Not A Fix-It, Oral Sex, Perceived Betrayal, Poor Poor Railroad, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Potty-Mouth Kids, Reference to M/F relationship, References to PTSD, Robert Joseph MacCready/Male Sole Survivor - Freeform, Robert Joseph MacCready/Sole Survivor - Freeform, SO MUCH HUGGING AND HAND HOLDING, Snarky Shaun, Spoilers, Survivor Guilt, Synth Rights, Unsafe Sex, Veteran PTSD, Weird Parent Child Dynamic, You can't fix post-apocalypse all the way, debate, m!SoleSurvivor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 17:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megazorzz/pseuds/megazorzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An in-depth examination of the moral complexities of our Sole Survivor as he balances his responsibilities to the Institute and the Railroad.</p><p>With Robert Joseph MacCready, his lover and partner, at his side can our Sole Survivor persevere?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Comes After

**Author's Note:**

> Background (Spoilers!): 
> 
>  
> 
> \- - - - - - -
> 
>  
> 
> I do think it is possible to justify the Railroad's execution. One of the strengths of this game is the depth debate between the methodology of the Railroad and the potential. However, I was disappointed with how the game carried itself in that regard. Hopefully, this will elaborate on the struggles of a former Railroad operative when he is confronted by both the Institute's rigidness and the shortcomings of the Railroad's initiative.
> 
> I was also disappointed in how the writers tackled MacCready's morality. He always struck me as a merc with a heart of gold--not bent on causing chaos for chaos' sake, but wary of the moral pitfalls and ambiguities the Commonwealth Wasteland has to offer. He's a good person in vicious circumstances. The fact that he "liked" it when you killed the Railroad in the game, but still offered a verbal objection/question reveals this complexity. In that regard, I find MacCready more interesting than other companions, if not as well written.
> 
> Expect ugliness.

Lightning bolts darted through the clouds. Rain poured down the broken eaves, bearing down ceaselessly on the brick and mortar. The evening was cold and bitter. Clark watched as the steeple of the Old North Church rose in the distance, its chipped, white paint wearing visibly beneath the torrent. He felt a hand tug at his elbow.

Robert Joseph MacCready, eyes deep and searching, pulled the Sole Survivor into the shell of a nearby shop, out of the icy torrent. He gently wiped the droplets and fog from the Sole Survivor’s goggles with a sun-bleached bandana.

“What are we here to do?” MacCready asked. His grip was firm. Lightning flashed again outside, reflecting in unblinking eyes. “Tell me.”

Slowly the Sole Survivor wiped away the dirt and grime from the cracked window and pulled off his goggles, peering through at the steeple. From here it looked like any other ruin, one filled with quiet and death, a memory of times long, long since passed.

Across from them, crumbled in the cement, were the wiry remains of a wrought iron bench.

Not too long ago, before the bombs ignited the Commonwealth, before the Railroad and the Institute tore him limb from limb in their demands for loyalty, he and Nora sat on that very bench, eating chocolate gelato. In her usual off-the-cuff manner, she had let it out: she was pregnant. And there, in the curb, his paper cup rolled down the block, followed by cries of excitement and trepidation both.

It’s strange what two hundred years can do.

“You already know what we’re here to do,” Clark answered plainly, eyes fixed on the bench, every nerve tensing.

MacCready sneered and shook his head. “No, Clark. I only know what you’ve been ordered to do, what Fath—what your son ordered to do.” His grip tightened still, anchoring Clark to the spot.

The Sole Survivor shook his head. “It’s not what _Shaun_ wants, MacCready. It’s what the Institute needs. You know that.”

“What about those synths at Bunker Hill? You let them go. You had a chance to win points with your son and his little club, but you let them all go. Why? Why do that if you’re just going to turn around and stab Desdemona and Deacon in the back?”

Clark wiped his eyes. A wave of nausea and weariness swept over him and he collapsed on a nearby crate. MacCready fell silent. He lit a cigarette and the Sole Survivor watched the ashes float to the floor.

In the cigarette’s glow, he spotted one of the Railroad’s ciphers. A cross and an arrow. Allies nearby. The comfort of those signs gave way to sickening doubt, one he forcibly choked back. He knew what he had to be done. His time in the 108th regiment sprung painfully to mind; rough calls all around. He was one of the lucky ones.

“Do you remember what Desdemona said, Mac? The last time we were here?”

He took one last drag and flicked away the smoking butt. “About Patriot?” He took a long drag. MacCready was a smart young man; Clark saw the wheels turning.

Clark moved away from the window, gathering strength and resolve. Neither were free of bitterness and the promise of acute regret.

“She said his plan wasn’t extreme enough, that he might not be able to make sacrifices, that he could pose a risk.” Clark laid firm hands on MacCready’s shoulders. “And if that risk were to elevate, Desdemona said to cut him loose. The man who freed so many synths, the one without whom the Railroad could not _function_ , is expendable to her.”

“They’d just throw him away? Just like that?” MacCready pondered aloud.

The Sole Survivor wrung MacCready’s bandana in his hands. “You don’t have to come with me, Mac. I’ll understand if you can’t.”

MacCready stepped close and held him by the leather straps and kissed him somberly on the lips. How comforting the brush of his stubble was, even in these expansive ruins.

“I meant what I said,” MacCready said in a hushed voice. “I plan on walking this earth with you ‘til the day I die.” The Sole Survivor laced his fingers in MacCready’s, mapping out the calluses and cuts. “No way I’d abandon you now, not when you need me the most.”

He stepped out into the rain and held out his hand. “You helped me save Duncan’s life. The man who did that can’t do wrong in my eyes.” Rain soaked his trench, but still he remained. “I know you have a plan. I know you’re doing all of this for a reason. I may be too young and naive to see it now but...I trust you.” He tipped his hat. “Director.”

Clark held the tears back and took MacCready’s hand as they marched through the rain and fog toward the Old North Church.

 

\+ + + + +

 

The tomb was damp but filled with life. Gloria was hunched over a map, planning the route she and her minigun would take from the drop point to a new safe house in Somerville. Tinker Tom was in his makeshift lab, analyzing the data from the many MILA units which dotted the Commonwealth’s high rises. Sparks burst out of a particularly worn unit as he connected the cords and shafts, gathering what data he could from the lightning fried carcass.

“Nothing yet,” he muttered to himself, “but that’s what the Institute wants us to think. Must be some undetectable virus strain. Nanobots maybe.”

“Not this again,” Carrington sighed audibly from his station, turning away from his microscope. “Isn’t it about time to pull the plug on the MILA program and focus on something more useful, Tom? No air contaminants have shown up in your little experiment and they never will.”

“You’ll be eatin’ those words, doc!” Tinker Tom shouted from his monitor. “When you’re coughing up blood and microscopic cameras, you’ll haveta get in line for my cure!”

Eventually his eyes fell on Desdemona, who stood tall and regal near Gloria, drawing thick lines on the papers beneath them. She tucked a red lock of hair behind an ear as she deliberated and plotted. Trust came so slowly to her. Who could blame her? Clark didn’t like to think—to acknowledge—that her trust had been misplaced. Instead that something grander and far reaching than the Railroad had supplanted it, like a potted plant outgrowing its cramped vessel.

An opportunity for real, lasting change had presented itself, one superior to the network of bandaid solutions that had already started to peel. Clark’s resolve remained firm and with it he walked up to Desdemona and her war table one last time. It’s all he could do to focus on that sole fact.

“Charmer, are you okay? You don’t look so good.” Her gaze was penetrating and analyzing.

“Do you trust me, Desdemona?” the Sole Survivor asked. He looked to MacCready and nodded.

 

\+ + + + +

 

The ringing in his ears was finally beginning to wear off. Horrific shapes and colors began to gather themselves right before his eyes. Dust and the smoke of gunfire still hung heavy in the air and the harsh ring of his blown-out eardrums hung eerily over it all.

“Hey! Hey!”

He turned sluggishly around. MacCready’s blue eyes were locked on his. The Sole Survivor felt hands on his shoulders. He thanked whatever god would listen.

“I’m here. MacCready’s right here. I haven’t gone anywhere,” the blue eyes darted back and forth. “Clark, say something!” MacCready gasped.

Things grew ever more clear as the shock left his system. It was as if he were stuck in a time warp; the crackle and bursts of gunfire came rattling back rapidly, as if he were registering them afresh. The blood glistened in the low light, sprayed across brick and mortar, staining every surface.

His head pounded, hounded by the cries and shouts, while his own voice escaped him. He turned around and there he saw Desdemona crumpled on the ground near her station, blood pooling beneath her, eyes still, perhaps for the first time in her tragically short life. Her revolver lay at her feet.

Something surged in his throat and he keeled over. MacCready was on him in an instant, arms sheltering him from the horrific sight. “Don’t look, baby. It’s done. It’s done. No one here but you and me.”

The Sole Survivor’s breath drew in more and more rapidly, until he felt the fullness of his lungs in his chest, but still he was mute with shock.

MacCready cradled him, shielding his lover’s eyes, letting him sob silently into his worn trench coat. P.A.M. crackled in the corner, shot to hell, innards sparking uselessly until, at last, its battery gave out.

Even the dust and last crumbling bits of wall had settled before the Sole Survivor’s tears ran dry. Slowly he pulled away from MacCready, who was reluctant to part with him.

The two stood, the survivor assessing the wasted potential and MacCready the wasted life. Clark’s fists began to tremble. MacCready’s hand was on his shoulder. “Come on, baby. We have to get you out of here.”

The Sole Survivor stepped carefully over the bodies and guns and hovered over Desdemona. “Doesn’t matter. Only Shaun knows we’re here. We’re safe.”

“Physically, maybe,” MacCready said, standing and offering his hand.

“I—I can’t leave them like this, Mac. It’s not—”

“What? Not right?” MacCready asked. “Sorry to say, but it’s too late for that.”

“No,” the Sole Survivor said, hurt shooting through him. “No, I only—” Clark cut off abruptly, head scanning the room for bodies.

Clark’s eyes fell to the floor. “Come on, we really shouldn’t be here. Ain’t good for you.” He took Clark’s hand in his and attempted to extract him from the tomb, but Clark wouldn’t budge.

“Not until I give them,” Clark paused to catch his breath as dizziness overtook him.

“What, babe?”

He returned MacCready’s gaze and pulled his hand away. “What Kellogg didn’t give my wife. A proper resting place.”

MacCready scanned his face. Beneath his goggles, Clark’s skin was clear and unblemished by blood and soot, his eyes suddenly gripped by solemn duty. This man has seen so much war and blood, and MacCready wished he could make it all go away. He removed his green hat solemnly, placing it on a nearby work bench. There’s no wiping this clean, but for Clark he’d be willing to try.

“Well...we’re in an old church...good place to start, right?”

The Sole Survivor wiped his eyes and without another word they got to work. They carefully removed the heavy stone lids from the coffins, cleared the old withered remains when they found them, and carefully interred each member of the Railroad in the coffins, silent save for the grunts and heaves of their labor.

The Sole Survivor felt the heavy weight of tears behind his eyes, but he could not succumb to them now, not while their blood was on his hands and duster and with the task incomplete. He paid no attention to their faces. He would have time to consult them in his nightmares.

Now was not the time for regret; even this ritual was extravagant. The Prydwen airship still loomed over the airport and they had little enough time as it was for this ceremony, let alone the luxury of mourning. Despite that, he promised each of them their due time, though he did not expect forgiveness, from himself or anyone else. He’d have to live with it.

Once the bodies were arranged as neatly as the circumstances would allow, the two stood near the head of the operations table, whose maps and charts were torn to shreds in the gunfight. Slowly the Sole Survivor approached each member, shutting their shocked betrayed eyes and bidding them farewell.

When he arrived at the foot of Deacon’s coffin, he reached in slowly, but something stopped his hand. Perhaps guilt.

“Deacon...”

“Hey, man.” MacCready’s voice trailed off. He gripped his tattered hat in both hands, eyes glued to his husband.

It occurred to Clark that he had never seen his entire face—or at least the latest in a long line of countenances that Deacon had so carefully crafted. The lenses of his opaque sunglasses were cracked and smeared with viscera.

Deacon had been the hardest to take down in the end, having experienced the full brutality of the wasteland. He had known Clark’s tricks, even tried to shoot his shotgun canister from his hands. Deacon always had it out for the Sole Survivor and his shotgun, even to the last.

“If you wanna blow your cover, go right ahead,” Deacon had whispered on a delicate Railroad transfer, “But I intend on living, even if that means taking the cowardly route.”

Clark felt an arm hook in his. “Aren’t you going to close his eyes?” MacCready asked quietly.

“No,” the survivor said. “Someone needs to keep watch and...he wouldn’t have wanted me to see his face. I owe him that much, at least.”

MacCready folded his hands in front of him as the survivor fell into silence. MacCready wanted to say something, some kind of eulogy, but he couldn’t think of anything apart from questions lacking answers and the pangs of guilt that he too would tacitly bear.

MacCready looked back toward the shattered monitors and the mutilated labs. He thought that they, too, were naive in the end. They were too idealistic and haughty for his tastes.

If life at Little Lamplight had taught him anything, it was that putting yourself out there was just asking to be shot. Too many Little Lamplight alumni learned that the hard way. You could only ever really trust yourself, MacCready had reasoned. Since meeting Clark at The Third Rail, he had slowly come around. However, standing among the body of Clark’s former allies, he felt that budding trust tremble for one traitorous moment.

He quickly scolded himself. He knew Clark wouldn’t make these decisions lightly and that he had only the greater good on his mind. MacCready was glad that plan included him.

Slowly the Sole Survivor knelt down, resting his elbows on the edge of the stone coffin, hands clasped in what he could only guess was prayer. His mutterings were indecipherable, but MacCready managed to catch the end of it when he at last joined him on his knees.

“I won’t let you down. Just forgive me. Forgive me.”

MacCready didn’t ask whose forgiveness he was asking for, but the question nagged at him as they left the last resting place of the Railroad, leaving the blood and shattered trust behind.

It’s amazing what two hours can do.

Slowly they ascended the steps, more from the weight of their emotional weariness than caution. In the corner of the second floor was a metal basin and a size-able hole in the wall. They silently gathered scraps of wood and withered paper and built a fire.

They didn’t eat and didn’t sleep, but gazed at the night sky that had at last emerged from behind the heavy clouds, huddled close to one another for warmth.

 

\+ + + + +

 

“Forgive me,” the survivor’s voice echoed in MacCready’s head over and over in his sleep. He shot up in his sleeping bag, reaching for Clark, but found only an empty space next to him.

“Something’s bothering you. I can tell,” Clark said softly from across the room. He was seated on the windowsill, gazing at the few remaining stars.“My offer still stands, you know.”

MacCready’s eyes danced to the small glint of the survivor’s wedding ring and the matching flicker that was on his own ring finger. “What offer?”

MacCready moved over to the window to watch the last of the blues and purples flee from the skyline. The survivor dug his face into MacCready’s chest and MacCready accommodated him with a soft embrace.

“You don’t have to come with me. I’ll understand if this is too much for you—if _I’m_ too much for you after all of this. I wouldn’t blame you for leaving me.”

MacCready cradled the survivor’s cheeks in his rough hands, gaze penetrating into his reddened eyes. “I used to kill people for a living, Clark. I can handle that but...”

“But what?” Clark asked.

“Just help me understand, baby,” MacCready pleaded. “I know you had your reasons, but please, I really want to understand.” He rubbed soft circles on the survivor’s back, as if that would coax out an answer. “Help me out. I know she said those things about Patriot, but why kill them all just to make a point? ”

“It was for more than a point, Mac.” After some tense moments of consideration, the survivor turned to him. “Desdemona...she said that Patriot’s plan wasn’t going far enough.” He chuckled humorlessly. “It’s ironic. In the end it was her plan that didn’t go far enough.”

“What do you mean?” MacCready asked. “You and the Railroad both freed a lot of synths. You guys did good. You gave them their freedom. Never saw that much selflessness before; almost made me sick.” He let his arms fall to his sides. The wasteland didn’t have room for selflessness. Seeing Clark and the Railroad’s work went against everything he had taught himself in Little Lamplight and that the Capital Wasteland taught him cruelly afterwards. “I just don’t get it.”

The Sole Survivor ran his hand through his dark locks. “You weren’t at Libertalia, Mac. You didn’t see what I saw. You didn’t witness what chaos can erupt when a synth doesn’t know right from wrong—when a synth doesn’t remember what hardship they escaped. You didn’t see Gabriel covered in spikes and blood.”

“Gabriel...” MacCready trailed off. “He was that rogue synth. The one you and that courser took back.

Clark paused, taking a moment to remember the depth of Gabriel’s cruelty and letting it run loose from his tongue in waves.

“He...he did all that?” MacCready asked meekly.

Clark nodded. He had moved over to the window, gazing at the sunrise creep steadily into the sky. “I’ll never forget his eyes,” he said quietly after the onslaught.

“The Railroad freed the synths, but what life did we give them in return? The Railroad never answered that question, not once. For Desdemona and Deacon and the rest, just freeing them, wiping their memories and getting them to relative safety was enough. But, they gave almost no thought to the outcome, to what comes after.”

“Well regular people are just as chaotic,” MacCready asserted. “These ones just have more moving parts is all.”

The Sole Survivor shook his head. “That’s the problem. Gabriel...he was something else. That wharf was a mass grave. He and his raiders did things that make me sick to think about and more than that, even.” He paused. “The Railroad had the victims’ blood on their hands too. The fate that the Railroad endured was far kinder in comparison to what his victims suffered.”

He paused to reflect. “I know I can’t make everything right again—whatever wrongs the Railroad and I helped create—but I have to try. There must be a different way.”

MacCready stepped closer and felt Clark’s firm arm wrap around his waist.

“But this way we’ll have help. The Institute’s technology has the potential to do so much _good_. The Railroad would destroy everything—humanity’s best shot for survival—for the short term. They’d kill anyone if it meant freeing synths. They were idealistic and short-sighted. It had to be done.”

Turning to take in Clark’s weathered face, MacCready pushed on. “Then what are you trying to do, Clark? If you don’t wanna free the synths, I don’t see how we can help ‘em.”

Clark shifted. “What the Railroad wasn’t capable of, with resources and information they could only imagine. I’m going to make it so synths don’t have to be freed or saved and teach the Commonwealth that we can be allies. That the Institute and the synths can be an asset instead of a bogeyman.”

“You’re going to inherit that too, then. The Railroad’s legacy and the Director’s chair,” MacCready observed cautiously. “What comes after?”

“No. The Railroad is over. This is something new. A revolution from the inside, Mac.”

MacCready slowly smiled. There’s Clark. Wonderful, generous Clark. “And you’re calling the Railroad idealistic?”

The Sole Survivor gripped his hand. “Maybe you’re right, Mac,” he conceded. “And you can be a part of it, if you’ll stay.”

“Clark...”

“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. A lot of them down there still don’t think of the synths as anything more than machines, but they don’t know what’s coming.”

MacCready sighed. “You’re starting to sound—”

“Like Desdemona.”

MacCready was quiet then smiled softly. “Like the Lone Wanderer. She had a chip on her shoulder. No way in hell she’d let anything stand in her way.” He kissed Clark and stroked his chest. “She helped free slaves taken from Big Town. And all for nothing in return.”

“Sounds like a big responsibility. Are you sure you can handle it all?” MacCready asked softly.

Clark took MacCready’s hand in his, still gazing at the ruins of the skyline. “Someone has to. Freeing synths to a life of hardship with no skills, no connections...no family. Nothing. Believe me, it’s not a good feeling.” He remembered the burning, harsh sunlight on his retinas as the wasteland sprawled out before him.

“I know this isn’t ideal.”

“What is ideal, Clark?” MacCready said. The weight of it all was beginning to wear on him. He moved away and began rolling up his sleeping bag. His eyes rested on his wedding ring, mulling over the scenarios.

“I see,” Clark said, unmoving.

“I just need some time to think by myself. This is a lot to swallow.” He slipped his bag over his shoulder. He hated to do it, but if he didn’t take the time to think now, he might not have another chance.

“I understand,” Clark said, crossing his arms and leaning against the crumbling brick. “It’s your choice, but I know where I stand, Mac.”

MacCready loaded his rifle and slung it over his free shoulder. He crossed over to Clark and slung an arm around his waist. He leaned in for a soft kiss.

“I’m heading to the Home Plate.” His fingers ran over Clark’s callused hands until he felt the warm, golden band. “You probably need to report in anyway. Shaun’s waiting, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He is.”

“I’ll be here for you when you get back. I promise.” MacCready smiled, pressing his old bandana into Clark’s hand. “Maybe I’ll have my head wrapped ‘round all this by then. But I’m not leaving you. Can’t get rid of me that easy.”

He waved and descended the stairs and started on his way.

From the hole in the wall, Clark watched him slip into the shadows of the morning sunlight and out of sight, feeling love and heartache both.

 

\+ + + + +

 

MacCready found shelter inside of an old drugstore, lungs burning. He really needed to quit smoking. Thankfully, the metal grate was somewhat intact and mostly useable. Less noise to draw attention to himself.

He had nearly escaped a group of Super Mutants. With Clark, he’d be able to pick them off easy, but it’s hard being a sniper with about a ton of muscle right on top of your position. Using a well-timed cryo grenade and the last of the Railroad’s stealthboys (probably the last one in the whole Commonwealth, he reasoned), he managed to give the bloodthirsty group the slip.

He slipped in between the bars and got to work on the lock. It opened easily, he crept inside cautiously. He was still, listening for signs of life—or un-life, as far as ferals were concerned. Once he was satisfied, he settled in the back storage closet, which was wide enough to wait for any lingering danger to pass.

His heartbeat wouldn’t settle down. Clark swam in his thoughts. Wonderful, handsome, caring Clark. Maybe too caring. No, not that. He didn’t mind it when Clark helped those farmers find their daughter, or Billy find his parents. What he couldn’t understand were his bigger plans. It was too much, too dangerous and there were too many holes for him to fall in. Too many enemies to make.

If life in Little Lamplight had taught him anything, it was that sticking your neck out for somebody was just asking to have your throat cut. Yet Clark did it, again and again. The caps were good, but it wasn’t about caps for Clark. It was about making people smile in spite of it all. And how he made MacCready smile too.

“Too good for me,” MacCready muttered. “Too good.”

He wished it could be just him and Clark again. He knew they could survive on their own easy. MacCready was the best damn marksman in the Commonwealth and Clark was practically bulletproof in the fray once he got going. He was a force of nature with that shotgun of his.

He was still, ears still alert and cautious.

He could shoot down a deathclaw easy—everything dies if you have enough bullets—but the Institute was a different kind of beast, with problems that didn’t go away with hot lead alone.

Desdemona and Deacon and the rest called Clark “Charmer” for a reason, but he was worried that it wouldn’t be enough. MacCready sighed and settled on his back, staring at what was left of the ceiling.

If they treated synths and folk in the Commonwealth like they were nothing, he could only imagine what they could do to his husband. After all, he was named the heir to his son’s legacy. Clark said that a lot of them didn’t think he deserved it. Letting alone all his ideas for the future of the Institute and synths inside it, Clark was an outsider, an intruder and he was great at making enemies. Charming though he was, he was also fast to let people know when he thought they were wrong. His big mouth had gotten them into more than one mutpickle.

“Big idiot,” MacCready said, tucking his hands behind his head. As he closed his eyes, he heard the cock of a gun.

 

\+ + + + +

 

On the rocky rooftop, Clark watched the sun rise over the Commonwealth. Its rays scattered itself and glistened in puddles and eaves, in rundown cars and empty fountains. If he squinted, he could almost imagine it as it used to be. However, those memories had long begun their ceaseless retreat into the past. Tt was the future he needed to focus on.

The steeple was bright. He shuddered when he thought about what lay within.

He brought up his pipboy. His hand stopped on the knob. He knew he should teleport back to the Institute, but something didn’t feel right. And he thought on what was missing as he watched the sun rise further.

Then it hit him. Proof. He needed proof. Shaun was an acutely cautious man and he had long known of his son’s involvement with the persistent thorn in their side.

He found a ladder near the ledge and descended down, jumping down the last few feet to the sidewalk.

As he entered the secret tunnels, the unmistakable stench of decay met his nostrils. It was nothing new to him, save for the additional sour sting of regret.

It got worse as he entered HQ. Clark tied MacCready’s bandana around his nose and mouth and began searching for his proof. Nothing could be done for it now.

Finding compelling enough evidence, however, became difficult to seek. Blood and wreckage could be faked, hell, it was everywhere in the Commonwealth. They didn’t have a paper trail, and their equipment would be indistinguishable from any other pre-war tech as far as the Institute was concerned.

He brushed past the stone coffin near the head of the room. Desdemona still lay peacefully. Then it hit him.

“We believe this woman to be their leader, father,” Shaun had said to him. He slid a facedown photo across the pristine chrome desk. He slowly turned it face up.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Shaun had said, silently confirming his well-grounded suspicions. It stung, but there she was, with her hair tied in a low ponytail, her plaid scarf wrapped around her neck.

He sighed and leaned over her resting place, gingerly lifting her head and uncoiling her scarf. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would have to do. He felt the soft wool beneath his fingertips, letting the dark, caked blood flake off onto his skin.

He removed a hair for good measure and lay her head down. He was still for a moment, then made a final round to each coffin.

Drummer Boy, Gloria, Tinker Tom, Cartwright. He had hoped they would look at least indifferent, but he read too much into each grim frown. The smell was getting to be too much.

When he at last reached the final coffin, he gasped, gripping the edges with both hands. One last twist of the knife.

It was as if Deacon’s body had been spirited away, but Clark knew better. His heart raced and thumped in his ears. In his place was a bloodstained note fixed with a combat knife. Scrawled on the scorched paper—coordinates and four curt words; “One last run, Charmer?”

He crumpled the page in a shaking grip and rushed out of the catacombs.

“One last run, Deacon,” he said, letting the bandana fall away.

 

\+ + + + +

 

“Well this is a problem,” the wielder said. She was shorter than he was, maybe ten or eleven years old tops, hair cropped short and topped with a musty, orange cap. No wonder he didn’t hear her sneak in.

“You’re in my hideout,” she accused.

He raised his hands. “Looks like I am. You caught me fair and square.” He was certain he had locked the door behind him, but he spotted a set of keys dangling from a cord around her neck. “What do you want me to do?”

She rolled her eyes. “I want you to git, that’s what.”

He rose to his feet and reached for his things. “I’d leave those be if I were you,” she said behind the barrel, “if you don’t wanna be chocked full’a lead.”

He looked her dead in the eyes. She was no stranger to holding a gun.

“Can I at least have my hat?” MacCready asked, slowly letting go of the strap.

She paused to think. “No funny business. It ain’t my size, anyhow.”

He slid the cap on his head and followed her gestures. They left the storage closet and walked through the ruins of the shop. His hands were still raised.

“Can’t say I blame you,” he started. “This is a pretty sweet spot. Pretty intact all things considered. When did you move in?”

“A day ago,” she said cautiously. “Got booted out of my last hiding place and I found this one.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Just booted out? That’s pretty weird, don’t you think?” He knew how it went. Their hideout in the caves had been the subject of many attempted invasions. Sometimes not all of them made it. But hey, that was the law of the land: lawlessness.

She spat on the toe of his boot. “Yeah, well not everyone was as lucky as I was.”

They stopped near the threshold. “Did they hurt your friends? Family?” MacCready asked, letting his blood boil at the thought of this girl all alone in the world.

Her hand trembled and she lowered her scope. “Not directly, but I still blame those assholes. Me and my older sister had a pretty good thing going in our old hideout.” She cast her eyes downward. “Pack of ferals got to her.” She sniffed. “I escaped through the air ducts.” Her eyes were dewy, but gaze firm and direct.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” MacCready crouched down to her level. “I know how you feel. I had a wife who was killed by ferals too. Loved her a lot.”

She raised her gun and MacCready nearly toppled over backward. “You’re just trying to trick me with your talk. You just want to kick me outta here, just like that white-haired lady.”

“White haired lady?” MacCready asked. “Say, did she have a really, really big gun with her? Lots of barrels?”

She spat on his other boot and blinked a tear from her eye. “I know what a minigun is, dumbass. Why the hell do you think I’m out here? This little peashooter had nothing on that thing. That’s why me and my sister had to beat it when she told us to git.”

“What would you say if I told you that the coast was clear? That you could go back home?” MacCready offered.

She rolled her eyes. “I’d say you’re even dumber than you look.”

MacCready’s jaw dropped. “What’d you call me!?” he shot back. Above their heads a heavy grumbling vibrated through the worn boards. The girl held her breath.

He sneezed and looked up toward the rafters. Five heavy thuds sounded across the ceiling, then the crack of old wood and crash of boards. The girl turned to aim toward the stairwell and MacCready followed suit, yanking his rifle from beside his knapsack and readying his aim.

Six more thuds sounded in the wooden stairwell about fifty feet away, thundering down at an increased rate. In the shadows, MacCready spotted a dull green glow. Quickly, he grabbed the girl’s hand and yanked her behind the doorframe.

“A glowin’ one? Here?” she said.

A guttural sputtering roared at them from the stairwell. The sickly, gangrenous glow emerged from behind the corner. MacCready made eye-contact with the irradiated ghoul for one split second before it pitched itself forward at a full sprint, sputtering and growling.

He took aim, lodging a round in its knee cap, sending it toppling forward. To his left, the girl got three solid shots in its torso mid-tumble. The ghoul roared, not with pain, but savage determination, as it crashed into the doorframe, splintering the weathered wood.

The girl yelped and hopped back. Behind him, he heard the squeak of rusted hinges. The girl grunted with effort as she forced the window open and toppled out.

MacCready didn’t have time to think. He leapt through the cloud of stench and harsh radiation and sprinted toward the front door. Rapid stomping thudded behind him. He swung around with this rifle and got off another shot, ripping away a chunk of skull. The irradiated ghoul toppled over, growls dying in its ghastly throat.

He slipped out the door and slammed it behind him. He glanced left and right and snatched an old rake and fixed it against the door. He stepped back, listening to the pulsing drum of his heart. Thankfully the door was still, but he didn’t open it to check.

From a safer distance, he ripped off his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Not bad for a mungo,” the girl commented beside him.

He stilled and turned toward the girl, who was examining her pipe pistol.

“Where did you hear that ?” MacCready asked, perplexed.

“From my big sister Stacey, mungo!” the girl spat, as if he had known that already. “Goddamn, you grownups are thick-headed!”

He racked his memories. Stacey, tunnel-guard Stacey. She had left the relatively safe caves of Little Lamplight a few years before he did and moved on to Big Town with the other mungos. She never saw him become mayor, but had taken a liking to him, showing him how to clean and load a rifle and how to refill spent rounds with gunpowder. She was a big sister, alright.

He remembered she had a good eye and a quick trigger finger. Never forgave herself for what happened to Caps, the other gate guard. MacCready couldn’t blame her. Responsibility wears a person down, and she had a great big helping of it from such an early age.

“How come there are only dumb mungos around?” she said, voice cracking. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I miss Stacey.”

MacCready kneeled down on one knee. “This whole thing is their mess, isn’t it?” he said, gesturing toward the wreckage and ruin. “I gotta admit, sometimes I think I’d feel safer with a rocky ceiling above my head.”

“What?” she sniveled.

“Stacey and I go way back,” MacCready started. “She taught me a few tricks on how to shoot. Looks like she taught you a few things too,” he said, nodding toward her pistol.

“You mean you…?”

He nodded. “Not only did I grow up in Little Lamplight, I used to be the mayor.”

Her eyes brightened. “You mean, you’re not a mungo?”

MacCready chuckled. “Well, everyone’s gotta grow up a little sometime. But I gotta admit, other grownups can be really frustrating sometimes.” His smile dampened. He knew a confusing string of conversation must be going between Clark and his son, one hard to follow and harder to understand fully. “And confusing too.”

She wiped her eyes on her ragged sleeve one more time and stood up. Yanking her backpack over her burdened shoulders, she looked him straight in the eye. “Tell me, _mayor_ , were you fibbin’ when you said that that white-haired lady was done in?”

MacCready nodded. “Cross my heart.”

“Then take me to her,” she demanded. “I need to see it with my own two eyes before I go anywhere with you.”

He smiled, admiring the directness and gusto emanating from the worldly girl. “Sure thing, but if you don’t mind me asking, do you have a name?”

“Jenny.”

“Well, Jenny,” MacCready said, wiping his hands on his jacket, “You’re gonna wanna cover your nose. It’s gonna smell bad where we’re going.”

 

\+ + + + +

 

Clark smacked the screen of his pipboy, getting the display to properly illuminate. He was on the right track. He had to move up and cross the bridge to East Cambridge, then make a line to Porter Square in Somerville.

His nerves were alight and his stomach burned with acrid anxiety. Deacon could be anywhere, hiding in wait around any corner, beneath any mailbox, or spying through dirty, broken glass. Clark kept to the shadows, sneaking through back alleys and blown-out buildings.

Once he reached the Charles, he climbed to the undertow, wading through the murky, shallow waters to the far shore. Luckily these areas had been cleared out in the Battle of Bunker Hill. The Brotherhood of Steel was nothing if not relentless and thorough in their eradication of rival gangs.

Once his boots crunched on dry sand, he looked toward the airport. The giant, monolithic airship still hung heavy in the sky. He gripped the butt of his shotgun. He couldn’t forget his mission, even if that meant executing Deacon once more.

He checked the time. He still had plenty of daylight.

 

\+ + + + +

 

“You’re gonna wanna cover your nose, Jenny,” MacCready warned her.

She shrugged. “Nothing I haven’t had a nose full of before.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he chuckled. Slowly he pushed the door open and led her down the adjacent ladder. As they descended, the rancid stench of decay filled their nostrils.

Once on the basement floor, MacCready reached in his pocket for his bandana, but settled for his scarf.

He lit a spare lantern by the back entrance and proceeded into the dark with Jenny in tow. The oil in the remaining lanterns ran low, lending an eerie, hallowed quality to the catacombs. Finding a grave, even a mass one, in the Commonwealth and the Capital Wasteland wasn’t uncommon, but finding one formally constructed for the purpose was a different experience altogether.

The stench grew worse as they approached the former headquarters. Jenny was silent as they filed past the stone coffins, but gasped as they came upon Glory’s body. Hers was the only one unfazed by decay. Were it not for the context, she looked like she was only sleeping, albeit with troubled dreams.

MacCready held the lantern aloft and let Jenny judge his trustworthiness.

“There isn’t anything to be afraid of anymore,” he said quietly.

“What happened to her?” She grasped the edge of the coffin, still peering within.

“They…” How to explain? What did happen to them: to him, to Clark, to the Railroad? When had everything become so complicated?

“They died for a good cause. For something they believed in,” MacCready managed, neither accepting nor rejecting the truth of it.

“Good cause, my ass,” Jenny said.

“Come on now, Jenny.”

“Don’t you ‘Jenny’ me, mungo. Stacey’s still dead. This lady’s _still_ the reason we had to camp out in that ghoul nest and how I nearly ended up in another one!”

“She didn’t _make_ you camp there,” MacCready shot back. He couldn’t believe it, he was defending one of Clark’s self-righteous brethren. What a goddamn week.

“She didn’t give us anywhere to go, neither! She just told us to get out and that she didn’t have time to help. She didn’t give a damn if we went someplace safe or not,” Jenny said, voice cracking once more. “Just that we were gone.”

MacCready paused and lowered his lantern. He couldn’t stand the shadows dancing on Glory’s face, her features livened and moving in the flame’s flickering light.

“You’re right. She didn’t,” MacCready said, leading Jenny away from the near pristine body (all things considered). “But we can get you back home,” he offered. “It’s not much, but at least you can get settled in, right?”

Jenny eyed him and sighed. “If you say so.”

They began retracing their steps out of the catacombs, but something glinted in the low light, from somewhere that had previously been filled.

MacCready suddenly stepped over to the coffin and found it empty, save for Deacon’s grim note and a scrawl of coordinates.

“The hell?”

“What?”

“There was another one! I mean, another body. It’s gone!”

“So? Things get stolen all the time, why not a body?” Jenny said as a grim matter of fact.

“You don’t get it, Jenny! Apart from you and me, there haven’t been _any_ outsiders here ever. No way someone got in here to take the body.”

He tore the page from beneath the knife’s tip and hurried over to the war table. He quickly traced its coordinates. A red mark was already circled on the map where they intersected. Jenny joined him at the table, slightly amused at his panic.

“That’s where Stacey and I lived,” she said. She threw a mean glance over her shoulder to Glory’s resting place. “You mean all these people were _planning_ to kick us out? Don’t they got better things to do?”

MacCready’s eyes darted back to the note. “One last run, Charmer?” he read aloud. Just then he noticed a familiar filigree beneath his hand. His old bandana.

“Shi—crap. Clark!”

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s planning something. That dang trickster always had a back-up plan. I should’ve known something like this would happen.” Gruesome images sprang to mind: Deacon lurking in the shadows, bloody and contorted, jumping out at the last possible moment with knife in hand, embedding it in Clark’s back. He tried to shake them away, but they kept on growing in his paranoia.

“Just tell me what’s going on, mungo!” Jenny shouted.

“We have to get to Porter ASAP,” MacCready said, rushing out of HQ and down the hall to the secret entrance. “Someone I care about might be in trouble!”

“Jesus. More people at my hideout?”

“We’ll take care of it Jenny. You, me and my husband Clark are all gonna be okay, okay!?” MacCready shouted, throwing the door open and running over to the ladder.

 

\+ + + + +

 

Another mark in the brick. A big white X viciously slashed through the faded cross sign. The X was fresh, a perversion of the cypher’s original intent. To Clark’s knowledge, there weren’t any runners out in the Commonwealth. Deacon must have been here.

He sighed and wiped the dust off of his fatigues and reoriented himself. He was nearing Central Square in Cambridge. Lining the roads were shattered store fronts and restaurants and ancient litter and refuse.

He held his shotgun firmly in his grip. The sky was fading into early evening. So far the journey had proven simple—only a few bloodbugs and Rust Devils to contend with—but his heart still raced.

Keeping to the shadows, Clark contemplated what he would do and, more importantly, what he would say. Would Deacon, his once loyal companion, have anything to say? Would he even let Clark explain himself or would he try to do him in on sight? He had shattered every last optimistic shred of Deacon’s existence. It was only fair. Clark couldn’t blame him, even if his work for the Railroad had a fundamental snag.

He shook his head. Gabriel’s face, streaked with blood and warpaint, emerged from his memory; his dark, pitiless eyes were hard to forget and harder still to remember. He imagined that cold glare illuminated by fear placed there by the Institute’s disregard, then hope ignited by Patriot and the Railroad. How bewildering it must have been, to be thrown from sequestered servitude to the brutal freedom of the wasteland.

As he climbed a pile of crumbling cement and asphalt, he imagined Gabriel climbing through the wreckage. How fearful and thankful Gabriel must have felt, free from the Institute’s oppressive grasp and caught in the Commonwealth’s. It was to be a life of his own making, but the hand of creation gives and takes, and Gabriel _chose_ to take. Whether it was a result of what was taken from him was a matter Clark grappled with deeply.

“It is not a perfect memory wipe,” Desdemona had told him, “but it gives them a chance at a fresh start, with all the risks and rewards it entails.” Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Shaun’s retort was piercing; “Without their original directives intact, these machines are prone to malfunction. We made the choice for them and we are better—and safer—as a result, father. Dr. Amari’s memory tampering flushes all of that down the drain. It leaves them a blank slate for the wasteland to mar and shatter.”

Clark wondered if these ruins would have been easier to bear without the ghosts from his past: the war, his mental scars, Nora’s soft caresses and deep, penetrating glances. Perhaps if he had no fond memories at all of his time before the bombs, the wastes of the Commonwealth would have been that much easier to bear. A man, synthetic or not, can only take on so many burdens. The sick experiments perpetuated by Vault-Tec could have resulted in total loss of memory, after all. As it was, the cryogenic freezing was disorienting enough, enough to snap a lesser man.

Would he still have been himself, though? Would he still be so enthralled by his one opportunity to strive toward the greater good? Now, he wasn’t so sure; he was hunting Deacon, after all. Whether he was capable of cruelty wasn’t the question.The Commonwealth rendered everyone capable.

Now he wasn’t so certain that letting go of memory—however sweet or bitter—would do anyone any good. Perhaps is Gabriel recalled the cruelty of his toil underground, he would have treated his Commonwealth brethren differently. He might have retained some pity and empath if not for Dr. Amari’s interference.

Clark scratched his goatee as he surveyed the path through the pervasive decay. He could continue on to Harvard Square and take the T tunnel up to Porter Square; it was more likely that the coordinates would lead him to a secluded section of the T, in any case. He readjusted his cap and began his descent.

 

\+ + + + +

 

“What was it like?” Jenny asked as they hurried down the cracking asphalt.

“What was what like?”

“Little Lamplight.” She pulled off her orange cap and wiped her brow. They were keeping a brisk pace. “What was it like having only a bunch of kids around?”

MacCready kept his eyes on the road ahead and pondered. It seemed so long ago. A year in the wasteland did not pass quickly, but suddenly he could imagine their safe cave stretching before him. Lights were strung from post to post, creating stars in the soft darkness. At his feet, curling, glowing fungus crept among the stalagmites.

“It felt very safe. Like we could take on the world from our protected corner of it.”

“Did you guys ever fight with each other?”

MacCready looked down at her as they walked briskly. Her eyes were wide and wondering, the first he’s seen of earnest child-like curiosity in the young girl. “We all worked together pretty well. Sure there were fights now and then—hard not to be in a fighting mood when you’re all you’ve got.”

“Mungos just make things more complicated.” Jenny shoved her hands into her pockets and stared off down the road. “It must’ve been cool to just have other kids around.”

“Didn’t Stacey ever talk about it?”

Jenny shook her head. “Not a lot. She said it made her sad to talk about it.”

“Why?”

Jenny shrugged. “She was really sad when she had to leave. It was scary going outside all by herself.”

MacCready remembered her at the mouth of the cave, blinding sunlight from outdoors pouring into their safe haven. She kept her chin up, but she still looked so vulnerable, eyes bright against her dark skin. Her ragged trousers, ones she once swam in, were barely long enough to cover her ankles. Her jacket barely buttoned. What once fit an eleven year old girl became tight with puberty.

It was kind of a tradition among the children of Little Lamplight to gather to see one of their own off. They were growing fewer and fewer with each passing birthday. By the time MacCready’s turn arrived, only a small handful remained to see him off.

“Did you give the new mungos anything? Y’know, to protect themselves with?”

“Usually the mayor was the one to present them with a bag full of stuff. It was kind of a tradition there.”

“Did you do that for everyone?”

“When we could spare the supplies,” MacCready answered, mind swimming in the past. “As mayor, I gave out my fair share of supplies, but more than a few times there wasn’t enough to give out.”

Suddenly he felt Jenny’s accusing stare burn into him. “Did you give anything to Stacey?”

MacCready shut his eyes and tried to remember. Her jaw was stiff, but a rare quiver in her lips could be seen too. Her stature was tall and confident, but evidently concerned. He tracked her hands. Her right gripped her trusty rifle, which was admittedly pretty beat up and her left was clenched in a trembling fist. MacCready shook his head regretfully.

“Stacey already had a good rifle, so we didn’t give her any more guns. She went mostly empty handed.”

Jenny hopped out in front of him, eyes burning and indignant. “You mean you just shoved other kids out without _anything?”_

MacCready stopped in his tracks, nearly feeling the heat of her anger. “We had ourselves to worry about too, Jenny. If we gave away everything whenever one of us had to go, we’d have to spend days scavenging out in the wasteland.” He sighed. “At least Jenny had Big Town to go to.”

“Bullshit,” Jenny said, stamping her foot, “Stacey told me _a lot_ about Big Town. Said she ditched that shit town first chance she got.”

MacCready chuckled uncomfortably. “Got quite the mouth on you, huh?”

“Don’t tread on me, mungo!” Jenny shouted back.

“She was lucky she had a place to go to in the first place!”

Jenny scoffed and stopped in the road. She placed her hands on her hips and stomped in the dust. “Big Town was a joke and you knew it!”

“It wasn’t perfect—”

“Stacey told me it sucked big time. No food or water and it was just smack dab in the middle of nowhere for raiders to shit on.”

She had him there. He remembered when the Lone Wanderer waltzed into his life not too long ago. They rescued three of theirs who had been kidnapped by slavers. Mayor MacCready made a call; they couldn’t risk the same fate falling on them. So they stood by and did nothing.

“You mean you didn’t even check up on Big Town?”

MacCready swallowed down his retort. He couldn’t blame her, he knew. Jenny was still reacting to Stacey’s loss—the one marker of stability in her short, torrid life. Stacey must have felt the same way, standing under the scrutiny of the denizens of Little Lamplight at the wide, unforgiving mouth of the Capital Wasteland. All alone. He shuddered at the thought of it. He at least had Lucy, but Stacey had nothing but the vague, nebulous promise of safety with no follow-up.

He then wondered how a synth, mind freshly wiped clean, would have felt when encountered with the wasteland. At least Stacey had been a good shot. At least Stacey had some real experience with the wasteland. All the synths had was a false memory. A lie.

He crouched down to Jenny’s level, folding his hands on his knee. “We were just a bunch of kids, Jenny. We didn’t have the resources to feed all of _us_ all the time, let alone trekking out to Big Town. It wasn’t perfect, but...it’s what it was.”

“Well you better hope for your sake that getting me back my hideout will work out better, mungo.” Jenny pouted and stomped off ahead, arms folded tightly in front of her. He thought he saw a tear gather in those bright eyes of hers.

“That’s fair,” MacCready conceded.

Glancing at the shining gold band around his finger, he stood and renewed his pace. He didn’t have time to linger on that now, not while Clark was out there alone with Deacon out for revenge. He had to make sure he did right by Jenny. For Stacey.

 

\+ + + + +

 

The sky had begun threatening evening by the time he reached the coordinates. As he suspected, it was an opening that descended to the old train line. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was closely observing him. He wasn’t wrong.

Slowly he descended the steps into the station, shotgun gripped in both hands, ready to fire. He forewent his Pipboy light in favor of a smaller flashlight. At least the telltale green wouldn’t be giving him away, though he still felt like stalked prey.

The station was predictably destitute and derelict. Clark stopped to absorb his surroundings. Ahead of him stretched two forbidding tunnels, each shrouded in putrid dark. There was no telling who or what he’d find ahead. The threat of Deacon suddenly descending on him was a real possibility, but equally possible was the presence of scared synths, shaking with fear in the dark and desolation.

Clark couldn’t let them down. With the Railroad all but dismantled, there was no possibility of rescue or rehabilitation without him. And, if he was to ascend to the position of Director, he would have to make certain that the Railroad’s flame wouldn’t reignite to fight against his administration.

Just as he was about to start down a path, he spotted another white marker of the Railroad’s. Inside the illuminated lines sat a little sketch of a house. Again, fresh white streaks clawed and marred the symbol, but Clark could read it all the same.

“A safehouse? Here? Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Because it was going to be a surprise. A congratulatory present of sorts,” a graveled, cocky voice rang out behind him. Echoing in the dark was the unmistakable click of a gun cocking. Clark swung around and shined his beacon toward the shadows.

Standing in bloodied armor with oily, disheveled hair hanging over the lenses of his sunglasses was Deacon. He was slightly hunched, but unperturbed by his injuries, physical and mental. In his hands he held a formidable rifle, iron-sights glowing a noxious green. The barrel was trained on Clark’s head. Slowly, Clark raised his hands, letting the beam of light scatter against the murky grime of the tiled walls.

He heard the wet smack of bloodied spit slap against the tile. “You see, you had been doing so much spectacular undercover work for us that our council decided to start a new HQ.”

“New headquarters?”

Deacon nodded in the dark. “Another chapter. One headed by the legendary Charmer. Except now,” deacon stepped into the flickering light, “it appears you’ve accepted another position.” He chuckled bitterly as he trained the scope on the Sole Survivor.

“Charmer...you were always so good at bending the truth, at obfuscation and persuasion alike. To think,” feeling his body wracked with pain and wounds, Deacon laughed again, “I respected you for it. Admired you, even. Truth is...it stings.”

Hands still aloft, Clark stepped forward slowly. “Deacon...” He turned toward the voice, letting his rucksack fall to the ground in a heap. “I don’t know what to say.”

Deacon’s eyebrow cocked up above the frame of his cracked sunglasses. “So Charmer doesn’t know that to say? Color me shocked.” He gestured with his rifle and backed up into a corner at Deacon’s behest.

“Up until you showed up on the radar, I was the best undercover trickster the Railroad had to offer. Didn’t think in a million years that I would be on the receiving ends of your masterful deception.” He smiled wide and pained. “Well...you got me, Charmer.”

“Where are they, Deacon? The synths, where are they hiding?” Clark called out.

“Now why on Earth would I tell you that, Institute crony? You here to rescue them or to re-enslave them?”

Clark grit his teeth. “Believe you me, Deacon, I’m not interested in taking them back to the Institute.” He dug in his heels. “Or rescuing them the way the Railroad has done so for so many others. We can’t go on like this.”

“Now what the hell do you mean by that?” Deacon said, finishing with another bloody hack. He descended down the wrecked incline, closer to Clark. Behind the dark of his lenses, Clark could sense anger and fear and sadness burning all at once. He knew that feeling and oh how he wished circumstances could be different.

“You know what I mean, Deacon. You know that the Railroad wasn’t sustainable. There was so much we never addressed.”

“And what would you know about critical thinking!?” Deacon barked. “At the drop of a hat, at the behest of your twisted son, you massacred the last hope the synths, no, the whole Commonwealth had at escaping the Institute and their sick plans!”

“Escape to where, Deacon? To some ramshackle hole with no contingency plans? To a life of hardship and cruelty, no past, no future?” Gabriel’s face flashed in his mind once more. “The memory wipe does something to synths Deacon, it’s not right to sever them from their roots, however painful. It opens up a door for all sorts of chaos to pour through.”

Deacon kept the sights trained on Clark, yet he approached closer. “No more chaos than you, me, or any other sentient being is capable of. It’s just how the rad-cookie crumbles. It’s the risk we all take by being born. I mean, look what we got out of trusting the likes of you.”

His worn boot nudged the heavy rucksack as he stepped forward. Deacon glanced down at the bag and stopped in his tracks.

Peeking through the hole in the outer pocket was a painfully familiar pattern. He crouched down and wrenched the pocket open and held the long plaid scarf in the light, light not penetrating the thickness of her spilled blood. His hands trembled as Desdemona’s wool scarf wrinkled in his grasp.

“Collecting trophies now? Who the hell are you?” Deacon growled. His penetrating gaze fell upon Clark once more. “I should’ve snuffed you out when I saw you crawling out of Vault 111. This ends now.”

Clark readied his shotgun and fired the first volley toward Deacon. He ducked behind a corner, dodging the spray of hot metal and plasma.

Above their heads MacCready was nearly in full sprint, following the vicious echo of gunfire. Night was quickly descending on the Commonwealth, and he knew his time was running out. Jenny was right behind him, struggling to keep up with MacCready’s dead sprint.

“What’s going on in there!?” MacCready said between ragged breaths as they came upon the train station.

In the dim light, he saw flashes of gunfire down the stairwell, accompanied by the thunder of a gunfight. It was too late, Deacon had found Clark and was coming down hard. He recognized the precise fire of his assault rifle.

Standing at the entrance of the stop, MacCready gripped Jenny’s shoulder. “You need to go and find a good hiding spot, okay? Stay there and keep until I come back and get you.”

“What are you gonna do?” Jenny demanded, fear quickly rising in her throat. “Don’t leave me alone up here!”

“I’m making sure it’s gonna be safe for you, Jenny.” He paused and thought for a moment. “I’m gonna make sure that it’s safe for you to go inside. I don’t want this to turn into another Big Town situation, alright?”

Jenny’s mouth screwed up into a small dot and she reluctantly nodded and ran off to a nearby alley. After hearing the clang of a trash bin closing above her, MacCready sprinted down the steps, readying himself and his rifle.

The shots echoed louder and louder as he ran down the train tunnel. His lungs burned. He longed to call out to Clark, but knew he ought to keep the element of surprise on his side. A booming rifle continued ringing out, and from the sound of it, Clark was pinned down. “Stupid shotguns!” MacCready said between gasping breaths. “I told that stupid-ass that he needs to get a longer range weapon!”

Deeper in the tunnels, Clark was trapped. The wooden scaffolding he hid behind was slowly chipping away under the barrage of gunfire from Deacon. He had reached for a grenade or molotov, anything to relieve the pressure on his position, but found his belt to be empty. His rucksack was still in a crumpled heap some two-hundred feet away and all he had was his shotgun, which wouldn’t do at this range. He cursed under his breath as he tried to conjure up a new plan of attack.

Deacon was beyond words and solely intent on his demise. He doubted anything he could say would get him back in his corner. He couldn’t blame Deacon.

A stray bullet whizzed through his left arm and he hissed sharply in pain. His vision blurred then straightened once more. He didn’t have time to think or lament, just to act. He scanned the ceiling and found a loose wiring pipe hanging above Deacon’s position.

Deacon stopped to reload and Clark took his chance and swung around, aiming toward the pipe and letting loose another volley of shells. The pipe was punctured, steam hissing from the remaining pressure and flew off its hinges, clouding Deacon’s shying form.

He burst out of his cover and sprinted toward Deacon, raising the butt of his rifle to knock the man out.

Deacon caught the butt in his grip and turned it aside, in spite of his grave injuries. He thrust upward, shoving the barrel into Clark’s jaw, bruising the bone. Deacon pitched his shotgun aside and began to grapple with his former friend. Clark shoved back, weaving between Deacon’s blows, but he wasn’t quick enough.

In a blink of an eye, Deacon swept him off of his feet and sent him hurdling down a nearby ramp.

The old service tunnels toppled and turned as Clark tumbled down the ramp. As his body settled and his vision realigned, Deacon was on him, hitting him hard on both sides.

He attempted to fight the man off, but burning vengeance fueled him into a frenzy of grapples and blows. Clark tasted blood seeping into his mouth as Deacon pummeled him.

In their former exercises at the Old North Church, Deacon proved far more capable in hand to hand combat; even in his current decrepit state, Deacon had the upper hand and Clark had no other recourse but to defend himself as best he could against the spiteful blows.

MacCready’s blood pulsed with panic as the gunfire subsided. Did Deacon succumb to his wounds? Had Clark gotten overwhelmed? Each and every ugly possibility flowed through his mind as he raced through the tunnels.

Coming to the end of the rails, he heard the twisting sounds of struggle. Clark couldn’t hold his own against Deacon. He was a darn surgeon with his shotgun and revolver, but folded like a house of cards under fists.

He followed the gasps of their exertions.

Chest heaving with pain and sorrow, Deacon pinned Clark to the ground with a deft hold. He reached into Clark’s jacket and unsheathed his combat knife. “This is for the Railroad,” he said between wretched breaths.

Clark covered his eyes in pained anticipation. All he could see was MacCready’s blue eyes filling with tears and Nora softly beckoning him from behind a veil. Then an explosion erupted amidst the tumult. Wet splatters fell against Clark’s skin and he looked up to Deacon’s face.

The knife clattered to the cement. Deacon held his chest, mouth gritted and filling with dark blood. He took a jagged breath and crumpled to the side. Clark scrambled to his feet and retrieved his shotgun, training his sights on Deacon, who lay in a spreading pool of blood.

“Clark!” MacCready’s voice resounded at the top of the ramp. “Holy shit, Clark!” His eyes brightened at the sight of his lover and he practically leapt down the ramp to meet him. He wrapped his arms around Clark’s waist and held him tight.

“G-goddammit,” Deacon sputtered. “Didn’t think it would end like this. Always thought it would be an albino deathclaw that would do me in...not my friend, not like this.” Behind his lens a lone tear trickled down his blood spattered cheek.

Loosing himself from MacCready’s vice-grip, he crouched down near Deacon. Slowly he took Deacon’s gloved hand in his and felt as the man’s pulse slowly began to fade.

“I-it’s not going to end here, is it?” Deacon lamented. “The whole wasteland...it’s gonna be crawling with...” he trailed off, lungs wheezing their last.

“Don’t think about that now,” Clark implored him. “It isn’t over for humanity, Deacon. I’m going to make sure the Institute won’t hurt anyone else—person and synth alike.”

A slow grin spread on Deacon’s face. “Planning for the long haul, eh?” he managed between squelching coughs. “Taking a page from Doc Carrington’s book, eh? Sacrifices for the g-greater good? Damn. That’s,” he coughed up more blood, “That’s hardcore.”

Clark thought for a long moment. This was it for Deacon. What he said now would determine if he would die heroically or as an erstwhile thorn in the Institute’s side.

“You’re not wrong, pal,” MacCready interjected behind them. “But it ain’t gonna be like that.” His hand fell to Clark’s quaking shoulder. “Clark here...he’s gonna make turn all those Institute nerds around and whip ‘em into shape. He’ll get them to see the light. They’ll be all over, but they’ll be helping instead of hurting...right, babe?” He leaned over to make eye contact with Clark. He nodded then went still. “Tell me I’m right.”

Taking a deep breath, Clark gazed upon his dying friend. “I haven’t forgotten what you said to me after my first run, Deacon. The Railroad...it isn’t a place or an army. It’s an idea. And you can’t kill an idea—”

“Only tyrants...” Deacon added. “Yeah. I remember.” Slowly he reached into his pocket. MacCready’s gun was trained on him in an instant. Clark shoved the barrel down with his free hand and leaned in closer to Deacon. He pressed into his hand a set of keys.

“Welcome to your new HQ. Sorry I don’t...I don’t have a proper housewarming gift.”

Clark examined the keys.

“Deeper in the tunnels...there’s a synth looking for a future. Looks like I have no choice but to let _you_ find it for ‘em. If you mean what you say, be good to them.”

“I will, Deacon. I promise.”

His mouth overflowed with blood. “I-I’ll say hi to Nora for you...” Deacon’s head slumped back into the pool of blood. His pulse weakened and faded into stillness and suddenly all was quiet.

He felt MacCready’s strong hand grip his shoulder. Slowly he stood up to embrace him and they stood like that for some time, rocking back and forth as Clark let the weight of responsibility wash over him like a relentless tide.

MacCready rubbed his back, feeling the tremor of shock fade beneath his tender touch.

After some time Clark pulled away and gripped the keys in hand. “Let’s go,” he said with renewed vigor. MacCready smiled weakly and followed his love deeper into the tunnels.

Eventually, they came upon a locked maintenance closet. Clark flipped through the keys until he found one that fit.

“What will you do with this one?” MacCready asked quietly. “Are you bringing them back to Shaun?”

Clark shook his head. “No. Whoever’s in there...they’ve earned their freedom. Escaping the Institute isn’t easy.” He fit the key into the lock and slowly opened the door. “Besides, they’d be good as dead if I brought them back now.”

Inside, wide-awake on a worn cot was a synth, clothed in tattered street wear and smeared with grime. Her eyes were wide and wary.

A shaky hand held up a pistol. “You! I’ve seen you before. Down there, in the Institute’s labs! You’re one of them! You’re the Director’s father,” she said frightfully.

The synth pulled back the trigger uselessly. The synth winced. Even in the dim light, MacCready could tell that the safety was on. Truly helpless; he pitied her more than anything else.

“It’s true. I am Shaun’s father and I am with the Institute.”

“What are you here to do?” she asked fearfully. “What’s going to happen to me?”

“You can relax,” MacCready offered. “We’re not here to bring you in.”

As a show of peace, Clark popped the shells out of his canister and laid down his trusty shotgun. “See? I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help.” He took one step forward. The synth with the gun backed away cautiously, arm still trembling and gaze filled with dread and uncertainty.

“You see...I’m also a member of the Railroad.”

She wasn’t convinced. “Hold on just one moment. Where are the others? The man with the sunglasses said there’d be more of you.”

“I’m afraid it’s only me,” Clark said. “But it isn’t safe here, we have to get moving.”

“Why, what’s happening?” she asked.

“Nothing yet,” MacCready chuckled. “But that’s life in the Commonwealth. Something’s always bound to happen if you stick around in one place too long.” He wrapped an arm around Clark’s waist and gazed at him. “But life up here will be worth it. You’ll see.”

“Follow us,” Clark said. “We’ll get you settled in.”

At that everything came rushing back. “Sh—Crap!” MacCready suddenly exclaimed. “I have to get back outside!”

“What’s going on, Mac?” Clark asked.

“Someone else needs resettling,” MacCready explained. “Come on!”

Quickly Clark led the trio out of the tunnels and into the evening, making sure to grab his rucksack and the small, crucial piece of proof he needed for Shaun. MacCready jogged over to the large trash bin and knocked three times. Emerging from the refuse was an indignant Jenny.

“Finally done wasting every bullet in the damn Commonwealth?” she accused with a wavering voice.

“I’m so sorry, Jenny. It all got more complicated than I thought it would.”

Jenny wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked over MacCready’s shoulder. “Mungos! Why are there so many mungos in my hideout?” She crouched back into the bin. “You said you would be clearing it out! Soon everyone’s gonna be trespassing in there.”

“Well it’s empty now,” MacCready offered. “It’s all yours if you want it.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Clark asked.

“You mean you’d let a helpless child reside in those ruins all by herself?” the shocked synth behind them exclaimed. “Are you insane?”

“Big words from someone who left the safety on,” MacCready shot back. Jenny remained in the bin.

Clark was at the side of the bin and offered his hand. “I’m Clark. Seems like you met my partner already.”

She nodded and grimaced, pistol in hand.

“Say, how would you like another hideout?” Clark offered.

“I’m listening,” she said cautiously.

“There’s a town up north,” he started, using the kind, fatherly voice he may have used for Shaun had circumstances permitted. “A long time ago, I used to live there. It’s a little spot near the base of a big hill. Very safe and defensible, with lots of other kids for you to talk to.”

She wiped her eyes again, but her full attention had been earned.

“Now, there are a lot of mungos around there. Like this guy named Preston. Huge stick in the mud. But the rest are pretty cool,” MacCready interjected. “Plus there’s the best dog in the Commonwealth.”

“What’s its name?” Jenny asked hopefully.

“Dogmeat,” Clark said.

Jenny cocked an eyebrow.

“I don’t care who has what pet or what they’re called!” the synth exclaimed. “I just want to get out of the open and get somewhere safe. Please.”

“It’s not safe to travel at night,” MacCready said. “No telling what creepy-crawlies are waiting for you.”

“He’s right,” Clark added. “We’ll have to get moving if we want to reach Sanctuary by nightfall.”

“Lead the way,” MacCready said, readying his rifle. Clark nodded in reply and they set off into the open wasteland. He turned to cast one last glance at the train station, where lay one of the last shreds of the Railroad. He withheld his sorrows; he had to be strong for Jenny and the synth, as well as MacCready and the tender, precarious belief that he was on the right path.

 

\+ + + + +

 

A warhead exploding on the horizon. The shattered cries the cul de sac. Clouds turning to smoke and ash. The sun’s light overwhelmed by the piercing glow of destruction. The beat of boots on ashen soil. A heavy weight hanging on his shoulders. A rucksack, no, a body. Nora’s body draped on her bed, then covered in ice and frost. A tomb. A scarf falling from the sky, weighted by blood and spent shell casings. Then MacCready’s green cap sinking into the dirt, no, a flashing grenade, his army helmet falling into the mud. Ringing in his ears. Ringing. Ringing. Everywhere. Blood.

Clark shot upright in his bed, covered in sweat and the salt of slumbering tears. His pulse was running at a high pitch. The whine of aftershocks thrummed in his ears. He veered left and right. The room swayed beneath him, then a calming voice.

“Babe. Clark, I’m right here. Robert Joseph MacCready is right here,” a soft, slow voice offered.

The room spun around him. No, no, no this wasn’t right. The windows were wrong, morphing between a clean pane of glass and sooty remains. Tiles peeling off the wall then curling back up, brand new.

“You’re in Sanctuary, Clark. The year is 2288. You’re safe as can be. I’m here. MacCready is right here. You’re in your old house, safe and tight in bed.”

Clark shook his head and began pulling in sharp breaths of acrid air. It caught in his throat and coughed.

“Breathe in and out, nice and slowly,” MacCready calmly instructed. “There you go.”

His airway cleared slowly. His eyes watered. The room began to settle into place in the moon’s pale glow. He turned to his left. MacCready was there, brows knit in concern.

“T-there was the explosion. So, so, bright,” Clark said, stumbling on his words. MacCready hummed in reply.

“But it was different. Wrong. Nora was there. You were there. And Desdemona...god,” Clark continued, wiping the long locks from his eyes. “Then everything was in flames.”

“Keep breathing. Really slowly,” MacCready repeated. Clark was barely holding it in. “Can I touch you?”

He didn’t know why, but he shook his head. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and slipped on his boots and rushed out the door. His boots slapped the pavement.

MacCready threw himself back onto the worn mattress and sighed. It was all he could do to remain there. He knew he shouldn’t pursue him. He knew that would do no good. He learned that the hard way.

He held out his left hand and let the moonlight catch on the golden ring before letting his arm fall over his eyes. He had to wait. He hated feeling so helpless.

When Clark failed to return an hour or so later, MacCready followed his lead, lacing up his boots and throwing his trench on over his bare skin. He wandered out into the ruined cul de sac, eyes searching in the darkness for Clark’s distinctive silhouette.

He stepped down the hill and ran into Codsworth, who was placidly performing maintenance on a malfunctioning generator, jets softly pulsing in the dark. He hoped the small jet of flame didn’t trigger Clark further.

“Codsworth.”

“Ah, Clark’s spouse! How may I assist you sir?”

“Have you seen Clark? He...he needs my help.”

“Certainly!” Codsworth exclaimed. MacCready wished that he would react with more tact. “He wished to take in a view of the river. It is oh so lovely in the moonlight.”

“Thank you,” MacCready said. He turned back. “Also, can the repair wait until morning? Clark needs to sleep.”

“Apologies for the noise. I am re-arranging my schedule as we speak.”

MacCready took large steps down the slope and, sure enough, he found Clark sitting on a bench by the river, leering at the shimmering water. All was quiet, save for the thrum of the water purifiers and the wind winding through the wasteland. MacCready prayed that the purifiers wouldn’t get backed up again. The resulting gurgles and bangs wouldn’t do Clark any good in this state.

“This seat taken?” MacCready asked quietly.

Clark looked up at him with sleepless eyes. He shook his head and cautiously he took a seat near him. Close enough to touch, but far enough to give him space.

They sat like that for awhile, in stillness and quiet, just looking at the stars.

“I’m glad Jenny’s sleeping well,” Clark said at last.

“She must be worn out,” MacCready answered. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

“You can say that again,” Clark said, the color returning to his cheeks.

“But she can handle it.” MacCready slid a little closer and turned to him. “Had a good teacher.”

“Is that so?”

MacCready nodded and smiled. “One of our Little Lamplight alumni taught her the ropes of the wastes. She has a good eye.”

“Really?” Clark said, interest mounting. “How did you find that out?”

Closer still. “We had a chat about home—well, my old home—while we were out looking for you.” He sighed. “Hopefully this one will be more permanent for her.”

“It will be,” Clark asserted.

“With you at the helm...I wouldn’t be surprised.” They both smiled softly, though Clark’s eyes still haunted him. They turned back to the night sky.

“I’ve been thinking,” MacCready said, pushing further, “about Little Lamplight...how we could have done things better too.”

Clark was quiet.

“Of course, we were all just a bunch of lucky little squirts, but we still should have taken more responsibility.” He frowned.

“Once you hit sixteen, you were asked to leave. We didn’t trust adults to take care of us. Should’ve realized that these were our friends we were abandoning, not people who didn’t care. And what came after...was a bad joke.” MacCready scratched his head. He felt even more guilty saying it out loud, but it desperately needed saying; Clark needed a reason to think he did the right thing, now more than ever.

“We didn’t give our friends anything more than a murky promise. Just wished them good luck and sent them on their way to Big Town. And we never heard from them again. Apart from Stacey and Lucy...I’m afraid I don’t know what became of most of them.”

“You were just doing what you thought you had to to survive,” Clark said in a show of comfort.

“We should’ve thought harder,” MacCready said, letting an awkward chuckle escape him. “But now I have a good teacher too. And you taught me that surviving isn’t as good as living, Clark. That everything’s worth thinking about.”

MacCready slid another inch closer, as far as he could go without coming into direct contact with him. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Slowly Clark nodded and MacCready leaned into him, wrapping his left arm over his narrow shoulders. The moon was descending. He placed a palm over Clark’s chest, feeling the hairs beneath his callused hand and the steady beat within.

“And I don’t think I could go on living without you, Clark.”

He felt the beat pick up and slow down. “That means a lot to me.” He tilted MacCready’s chin up and looked him straight in the eyes. “There will be more hard decisions to come. You know that, right?”

He nodded. “And I’ll be there to help you through them.” He drew a hand across Clark’s cheek and leaned in slowly.

Clark bucked and surged forward and met him half-way. His lips parted, tongue darting into MacCready’s mouth. That earned him a moan and Clark growled in reply.

“I love you.”

“I love me too,” MacCready said jokingly. He yelped when Clark pinched his side. He stood up and tugged the Sole Survivor up by the hand. They climbed the slope up to the cul de sac.

Clark was stripping off their remaining coverings before they could shut and lock the door. Their jackets lay in heaps on the withered doormat. He giggled and ran toward the bedroom.

Pulling the tattered curtains over the window, Clark shoved him on the bed and enveloped him with touch and tongue.

MacCready moaned as Clark gnawed and kissed his jaw, moving lower and lower, sending tingles up and down his spine. They tossed in bed and MacCready straddled him.

“Oh Mac...” he groaned as he dipped down lower. He felt the tip of his cock slid against Clark’s hairy thigh. No doubt it left a trail.

It was so easy with him. He pushed him back with a single fingertip and gazed on Clark’s body, which was molded and shaped by war and battle. One in need of comfort and a lover’s touch.

He dipped down, taking the head of Clark’s cock in his mouth, tongue swirling and him breathing in deeply beneath him. With his left hand he started slowly sliding up and down the rest of his shaft. Clark moaned.

After Clark was sufficiently cloudy and rosy, MacCready lifted his legs over his shoulders and spread his cheeks. He blew softly on Clark’s entrance, then drew a finger in tight circles around it, which earned stuttered utterances on Clark’s end.

MacCready remembered the first time they made love. Clark had told him that Nora had been adventurous, that MacCready’s weren’t the first fingers to linger at his rear. But that first plunge in, guided by MacCready’s wiry arm was heaven. They were in the Home Plate in Diamond City. MacCready had hoped the neighbors would hear their efforts through the corrugated steel.

Clark was heavenly, as he writhed beneath him. MacCready had two fingers in now, working him slowly open. He removed his fingers. Clark whimpered. MacCready leaned forward, tongue lapping at Clark’s loosened hole then eating it in earnest. He breathed his musk in deeply. There was something primal about the whole thing. Long gone were the perfumes and oils of civilization, but this was enticing enough for MacCready. The smell was Clark’s and Clark was his. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Clark looked down at MacCready, whose sinewy shoulders bore the weight of his legs. His piercing eyes reflected the moonlight. He watched as MacCready’s lips wrapped around his cock once more and swallowed him down.

MacCready rearranged himself, now kneeling on the thing mattress as his fingers plunged in and out. Clark tried to reach down to MacCready’s bobbing cock, but his fingers hit that sweet spot. He whimpered as MacCready adjusted his aim, hitting it over and over again.

Soon he felt his heart leap and his cock pulse. MacCready swallowed it whole. One his knees, he crept up the mattress. Clark watched the moonlight dance on his rippling torso. He wasn’t built heavy, but for long bouts of endurance. His chest was smooth, but Clark ran his fingertips along MacCready’s treasure trail as he approached.

His cock bounced in front of Clark’s face. He accepted the silent invitation and opened his mouth wide. MacCready steadied himself against the dilapidated backboard and slowly undulated his hips. He felt Clark’s throat close around him. Clark moaned and the sound resonated as he hollowed out his cheeks.

Soon he was climaxing in short spurts. He sank down to embrace Clark, rocking back and forth slowly until sleep overcame them.

Their slumber was, for the most part, uninterrupted through the clear, quiet night. One of the few they’ve had together. MacCready would soothe him the best way he knew how. Clark’s sweat was cold and limbs wandering. He knew the man had so much on his shoulders, and was grateful he bore him as well.

 

\+ + + + +

 

“Are you even using your sights?”

“I’m trying, I’ve never held one of these kinds of guns before!” EV-11 exclaimed, pistol shaking under her grip.

“Well you’re holding one now,” Jenny insisted. She marched up to the synth and corrected her grip. “Now look down the barrel, just like I showed you.”

She tightened her grip and pulled the trigger. A bullet fired out, shattering a glass bottle to bits near the rocks.

“That’s it!” Jenny yelped. “Try it again, Eve Ellen!”

Eve Ellen fired again and another bottle shattered and fell into the gravel.

Clark gently folded Desdemona’s scarf into a tight triangle. He shrugged on his duster. Behind him MacCready was folding their worn woolen blanket.

As Clark fit the folded scarf into a plastic bag, he felt MacCready’s arms snake around his waist.

“You’re taking that to Shaun I assume.”

He nodded grimly and fit the proof into his pocket.

“My son and I have a long talk ahead of us,” Clark said. “We still have the Brotherhood of Steel to contend with and...business to discuss.”

MacCready sighed and buttoned up Clark’s duster. “Must be strange, talking with your son. He has so many years of experience on you. Can’t imagine what that would be like.”

Clark ran a hand through MacCready’s hair. “No more bewildering than talking to any child. They have so much to offer. They’re just constantly thinking and learning.” Out of the open window they heard Jenny shout with joy again as another bottle bit the dust. “And they have so much to teach.”

“Have you had any contact with Duncan?” Clark asked abruptly.

MacCready’s slight smile deepened. Always thinking about the future, that man of his. “Daisy tells me that he’s made a full recovery. Thanks to you.”

Clark turned and smiled softly. With so much on his plate, MacCready was happy to see him smile. He was glad to know that Duncan was thriving without him. He still didn’t think he would make a good father. He entrusted his care to a farmer back down near D.C. Caravans being what they are, letters from him were rare, but still coming. He made sure Mr. Gregory was good stock. After what happened in Big Town, he at least made sure to confirm that much for his own son.

“Why?”

He hugged MacCready and said simply, “Like I said, Shaun and I have much to discuss.”

Before MacCready could press it further they received a knock on their door. He followed Clark to it and it opened to reveal a very proud looking Jenny.

“I think she’s finally getting the hang of it!” she espoused. “But do I really have my work cut out for me.”

The synth spared a pointed stare before addressing Clark. “I think we’ve run out of rounds.” She held up a spent 10mm casing. “Do you have any more of...this kind?”

“Sure do,” MacCready said. “Do you want to come with me, Jenny?”

“Okay, come on Eve Ellen.”

“Actually,” she said, kneeling to address Jenny. “I have to talk to this man for a minute. You go on with Robert here.”

She merely shrugged and accompanied MacCready to the storage room near the back of the house. He passed Clark a wary glance before leaving.

“Please, have a seat,” Clark said, motioning to the armchair near the corner of the living room.

“Oh! Uhm, thank you.” She sat opposite of him and peered at him with cautious eyes.

“What should I call you?”

The synth woman was quiet for a moment. “Not by my code name. That’s for sure.”

“Is Eve Ellen okay?”

“I guess so. At least until Dr. Amari can set me up with a new one.”

Clark tensed at the name alone. “I’m afraid that Dr. Amari is out of the picture.”

Her jaw dropped and suddenly she looked bewildered and lost. “But they promised I would have these—these memories taken care of. That man with the sunglasses, the one I met before the train station, he said that it’s an essential part of the process.”

Clark stood his ground. “The memory wipe isn’t a perfected process—”

“I don’t care if it isn’t perfected.” She scratched worryingly at her left ear. “I just don’t want to remember the Institute or my old life. None of it.”

From the storage room, MacCready listened on as he showed Jenny rounds of varying sizes and gauges, ones she could use with her pistol with the right set up.

“As someone with more knowledge on the situation up here, I have to inform you, in good conscience, that the memory wipe will create other problems.”

“What about the reset code? You may not want to bring me in, but there may be others. At the drop of a hat I can become useless garbage!”

Jenny’s jaw dropped as she stifled a gasp, letting the bullet fall into the case. “You mean Dee Eve Ellen is a robot?” She turned to run back to them, but MacCready yanked her back.

In the living room, Clark shook his head. “The memory wipe doesn’t rid you of that risk. I’m sorry. I know it’s hard to hear, but it is the truth.” EV-11 fell silent, casting her gaze out the nearby window, eyes tracking the swaying grass.

“So...I’m always going to be vulnerable?” She wiped her eyes with her left hand. “After all of that?”

“Yes, but things are going to be different,” Clark said firmly, reaching out to grasp her free hand.

“Oh?” she snapped back, yanking back her hand. “And how are you going to change _anything?”_

Jenny frowned, fussing with the strap on her belt. “How can she be angry? She’s nothin’ but a robot.”

MacCready spun Jenny back to face him. He knelt down. “I know this is really confusing, Jenny. Believe me, before I got together with Clark here, I was in the same boat as you.”

“Stacey said that those robots were bad. That they wanna trick people,” she said, voice rising.

“No, that’s not all they are. Look,” he let Jenny stare down the hall at EV-11, “she’s just as scared as you were when that white-haired woman took over your home. She’s scared and stressed and needs a place to feel safe, just like you, Jenny.” She bit her lip, still staring, tracking the shake of Eve Ellen’s foot as Clark’s news sunk in.

Clark slid forward in his seat. “I’m—I’m set to inherit the role of Director from my son Shaun, Eve Ellen.”

She was listening. Jenny wandered into the hallway slowly, cautiously.

“It isn’t going to happen overnight, I can’t lie about that. But I’m going to make damn sure that the Institute and everyone in it see what I see.”

“Oh?” Eve Ellen scoffed. “Tell me then, _Director_ , what do you see? Do you see more than _just_ a synth?”

Clark’s eyes brightened. “I see someone who’s scared. Someone who’s uncertain about the future, about her safety. You’re not just a synth.”

“You could be my friend, Eve Ellen” Jenny offered. “I can teach you how to get by up here. You’re a fast learner.”

Eve Ellen looked toward Jenny, then Clark. She knit her hands in her lap and was quiet for some time.

MacCready wandered out from the back room slowly. “We’re not saying it’s going to be everything you’ve ever dreamed of.” He slid by Jenny and sat next to Clark. “But you find things to hold onto,” he looked into Clark’s eyes. “It’s worth the risk.”

“You wanted a better life for yourself, one where you were treated with some respect and humanity,” Clark continued. “Are already took a big chance by escaping the Institute. Do you want to take another one?”

EV-11 eyed them cautiously. Her shoulders slumped and she brushed her hair from her eyes. “I risked a lot. One of us didn’t make it...I have to try, I suppose. For them.”

Jenny handed her a spare pistol from her holster. “Good, it’s all settled then. We need to get back to work, Eve Ellen.”

“Eve...” she said, testing it on her tongue. “Some garden I’ve landed into, huh?”

Clark chuckled and MacCready breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not going to be easy. But nothing that’s worth it is.”

Jenny tugged on Eve Ellen’s arm and soon they were back at the firing range. Jenny’s victorious cries rang out over the bustling market in Sanctuary, past the mutfruit orchard and the babbling brook.

MacCready and Clark looked out over all of it as the ascended the hill to a secluded spot.

He checked his satchel and gear. MacCready kissed him on the cheek and backed away as Clark lifted up his pipboy.

“Hold down the fort while I’m gone,” Clark said.

“Give ‘em hell.”

A blinding flash of blue light and a short crack of noise and suddenly Clark was gone.

“Just like magic,” MacCready said to himself.

 

\+ + + + +

 

Just like that, Clark was deep, deep underground. His whole frame swayed, getting a feel for where the ground lay.

Dr. Holdren waved and called to him from the inner foyer. Both brilliant and so blithely disinterested.

Up through the glass, he spotted Justin Ayo. He was red in the face and scalp, yelling into his phone beyond the glass. It likely pertained to EV-11’s escape. So many promises to keep.

As he collected himself in his quarters, he looked up to Shaun’s balcony. It appeared empty. He must be resting.

Once he was disrobed in his private cell, he slipped into the shower, letting the hot spray wash away the blood, sweat, and tears of the Commonwealth. He was tempted to skip this part of the return ritual, to show Shaun the mess resulting from his direct orders, but he thought better of it.

He stepped out, dried himself, and slipped into his gray suit. It was strange that garb so familiar still made him stick out like a sore thumb, but at least he was presentable, if visibly drained.

Clutching the satchel to his chest, he climbed the stairs to Father’s quarters and rang the bell. The green light flashed and the door secreted itself away.

Desdemona’s shawl lay limp on the clean steel tray, brittle and caked with blood. Ever prudent, his had her photo at the ready. It was perhaps the sole photo of her. With a gloved hand he gingerly felt it between his fingers and nodded toward the technician who wheeled the samples away for processing. If only her end had been so simple.

“This is merely a formality, father,” Shaun said soberly. “The board will expect some evidence to corroborate your report.”

Clark stood somber and rigid as the woolen scarf fled from view. He removed his reinforced-cap—one Tinker Tom helped him to engineer—in a show of respect. It was likely the last he would of see of Desdemona.

“I however do not need evidence. I knew you would do well by us. By me.” Shaun motioned for him to follow. Sitting on the balcony, one he would soon inherit, he felt sorely out of place. He was clean and suited, but the scars still lingered in his mind and body.

Down in the pavilion, he spotted the synth rendering of Shaun’s childhood, tinkering with a circuit board. Next to him, Shaun stifled a pained gasp as his body settled into the red recliner.

“I want to thank you,” he said at last, “for carrying out this grim task. I know it could not have been easy for you.”

“No. No it wasn’t,” Clark added quietly.

Shaun scanned him with an appraising eye. “Know that you have done the right thing. I admire your fortitude.” He reached for a nearby bottle of Sherry and poured liberally into two glasses.

“More such decisions will follow.” They toasted silently and imbibed.

With some effort, Shaun adjusted himself to face Clark. “It’s...strange,” he started quietly. He breathed in deeply.

“I find it strange that as I sit here in the twilight of my life, when my myriad concerns and struggles should be falling away, I find myself thinking now more than ever about the future.”

“I don’t think that’s strange at all,” Clark offered in a comforting tone. “There is still so much to be done, Shaun.” His knuckles were white as his callused hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“I am happy you agree.” Shaun paused to take another drink and a deep breath. “I wonder, father, what you will do.” Shaun lowered his gaze, no doubt spying on the little synth clone of himself, who was still rapt with the circuit board. “I wonder if you will start again.”

“Start what, son?”

Shaun smiled softly, somberly. “A family.”

Clark fell quiet. His eyes traced the Institute’s resplendence: the towering glass elevator, the clean, flowing waters, and the cavernous hollowed dome hanging over it all. Such fancies stood in sharp contrast to the stale face of his son.

“I already have one,” he said.

Shaun shook his head. “No, you mustn’t think that way. Soon I will be gone, father. You must accept that.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Shaun’s eyes were suddenly exacting and cautious. Already he reached a conclusion from Clark’s sparse words. “No. This won’t do. This won’t do at all.”

“It’s true, Shaun. I’ve...I’ve met someone. On the surface.”

Shaun crossed his arms. He was ready with his retort, but his breath caught in his disease-wracked lungs. Shaun lost control of himself. He sputtered and hacked, reaching for his water canister and knocking his glass of sherry from the table. The thick red drink spilled on white pristine tiles and he held his throat, gasping for air.

“Shaun? Are you alright. Talk to me!” He reached for Shaun in order to steady him. He held onto Clark’s arm as the coughs worseneed.

Shaun caught enough air to choke out his words. “My bed. I must lie down. Makes it easier—easier to breathe.”

He tried to stand but was unable. In one deft movement, Clark hooked his arms under Shaun’s knees and hoisted him up, cradling him in his arms. He was so light.

Clark carefully set him down in his bed, which opened like a coffin and closed again once Shaun was settled.

He took some time to clear out his lungs, and once the worst of it was past, he again confronted Clark.

“Do not think my episode will distract me from the issue at hand.” He crossed his arms once more, almost like a pouting child. “I must ask you, what possessed you to mingle yourself with an uneducated, likely illiterate, barbaric wretch up above?”

Clark stood his ground. “Do not talk about my partner that way.”

“I see I’ve struck a nerve,” he said sarcastically.

He couldn’t believe that he was bickering with his son this way. No doubt others down below could hear them argue. It seems that some parts of their relationship had always been destined to play out.

“That isn’t fair, Shaun. If the Institute refuses to help people above ground and provide them with educational infrastructure, then you can’t hold their lack of education against them.”

“We’ve secluded ourselves with good reason, father. Must I remind you of your duty to your peers at the Institute?” Shaun sharply replied. “Directing such a scientific body is a mountainous responsibility. You can’t afford to be distracted by precarious emotional attachments up above.”

Clark refused to back down. “And need I remind you, Shaun, that such a precarious attachment is the reason you exist in the first place?” He jabbed a finger over his bed and to the main foyer. “That all of this exists? You told me at the ruins of CIT that you trusted me to take your place. I don’t believe for a second that our family connection had nothing to do with that decision.”

Shaun wheezed and coughed, but put up a strong front. “You would bring _family_ into this argument, father? What about Nora? You would leave your wife’s memory behind so soon to pursue your wastelander?”

“I won’t tell you again, do not talk about Robert that way.” Clark was gripping the rail guards of Shaun’s bed, knuckles white. You don’t know him the way I do, Shaun. He has helped on the surface more than you can imagine. I trust him with my life. And until recently, that is far more than I could have stated about you.”

Shaun reclined back, chastened. His eyes caught the gold glint of Clark’s wedding band. He knew where the matching band likely was. “Robert?” He kept his eyes trained on the band, but could not avoid his father’s glare. “I was hoping that...that the child synth, my younger incarnation, could provide you some comfort, Father. I had asked you to consider it.” His voice grew quiet near the end. Whether it was from duress or weariness, Clark could not say.

“Now I’m left wondering,” Clark said softly. He wheeled over a stool to Shaun’s bedside and sat. “How _do_ you want me to treat the synths here?”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Shaun stammered.

“You all would have me believe that you consider them mere machines. As tools and nothing more. Yet you want me to form an attachment to one. To act as an emotional surrogate.”

“What of it? Pets serve the same purpose, yet they are not human.”

Clark sighed. Always an argument at the ready. “Pets don’t speak to you. They don’t smile and laugh. They don’t...they don’t resemble the child I’ve dreamt about in wasteland shacks and stoops.”

“You have an odd set of parameters for what you consider human,” Shaun observed.

Clark nearly sneered and stormed out, but refused to let Shaun off that easy.

“If I recall, you’re the one with the narrow definition of sentience, not me.”

Shaun fell silent. And, in a move that surprised Clark, he smiled. “Excellent parley, father. Now I know where I inherited my debating talents from.”

“To be fair, you didn’t only get it from me. Your mother was a lawyer, you know. A good one.”

Shaun’s face suddenly grew very weary and tired. “I suppose I cannot stop you from pursuing some comfort. After all that’s been taken from you, I feel guilty now trying quash your emotional well-being.”

“If you’re concerned about my emotional precariousness, son, why not let him live here?”

“You just don’t know when to stop, do you?” Shaun started. The fight was not gone from him yet. “Before you know it, every wastelander will be clamoring for a place here. All of our precise, pragmatic calculations tabulating our resources will be thrown off balance.”

Clark stood up and loomed over Shaun. He looked so small and frail, lying in bed, yet so fierce was his conviction. “I’m not asking for your authorization. I’m asking for your blessing.”

“What?”

“I want you to meet him. Before it’s too late. I would rather his first visit here to be with you.”

Shaun looked fixedly up at him. How worn and weather-beaten his father’s face was. It must have been that way before the nuclear bombs’ eradication. He knew his father was a soldier in the Sino-American war. Not terribly long ago, his probes had stumbled upon enlistment information at a military center not far from here. First Lieutenant. Somehow, forgiveness washed over him.

He could not forget that his father was nearly thirty years his junior, that he still clung to hope and longing with youthful vigor. Perhaps, if he had something to call his own down here, he would fight to defend it all the more heart. It was calculated and manipulative, yes. But this way, perhaps, they could both find the stability and security they both desperately needed.

“Very well. I will authorize Dr. Li to give your courser chip enough coverage to transport you and...your spouse to our headquarters.”

Clark smiled wide and deep. He leaned down to embrace his son. “Thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.”

“As long as you are happy, I’m happy.”

 

\+ + + + +

 

His pipboy whirred and hummed as the chip processed its new permissions. It almost grew hot on his arm under the strain. Madison Li looked stiff and severe as she disconnected the device from her computer monitor.

“No transparency,” she muttered. “I hope you will be more worthy in that regard than your son.”

“I’m more than open to suggestions. Thank you,” he said, tipping his hat. She waved him away without another word and turned back to her monitor.

 

\+ + + + +

 

The wind rushed through the barren branches above their heads. MacCready had covered his eyes. He expected it to hurt. It worried him enough seeing Clark disappear into a cloud of light and smoke, and now that he had to experience it for himself, he needed to remind himself that he was doing this for his husband.

“You’re lucky that I love you so much, because you know how I feel about all that science-y stuff.”

“MacCready—”

“Just tell me once it’s over. I’m getting sick just thinking about it.”

“Open your eyes.”

Slowly his fingers parted and he was met with blinding, white light and clear, perfect glass and metal. He was utterly dazzled; he swung around drinking it all in. Never in his life could he have imagined such pristine halls and passages. Small green shrubs dotted the arena and they too were beautiful and pure, unlike the craggy, twisted branches of the Commonwealth plant life.

“Give him some room, please,” he heard Clark say to passersby. “He’s okay, he’s just taking it all in.”

He heard the streaming jets of water and rushed over to the side of the main cloister’s inner ring. He leaned far over the rail. “I’ve never seen water this clean before. Is it safe to drink?” He turned to Clark for confirmation.

“That’s still in the process of being filtered,” he said. It seemed silly as soon as it came out. The water flowing beneath their feet was probably cleaner than anything MacCready has ever drank.

“Would sir’s companion like something to drink?” a nearby synth asked. He was of medium build with startling green eyes.

“Uh sure,” MacCready asked cautiously. He wasn’t certain, but he had a good feeling that this was what the Institute must have meant for synths to be: subservient, calm, empty. He felt guilty as he took the metal canister from him. Once the purified water met his throat, however, he couldn’t stop himself from guzzling it greedily.

“We should get you ready to meet Shaun,” he suggested, pulling MacCready away from the swirling waters. “Follow me.”

His eyes were everywhere but Clark as he led him to his private compartment. Everything was so dazzling and clean and overwhelming. He glared back at the onlookers, who were similarly foreign in his eyes; their lives were only marked by tedium and intellectual labors. How soft their hands looked, and how round their cheeks. How fortunate they must have been, the envious part of him thought, to have never experienced dirt and ruin, and to grow up blissfully sheltered.

No wonder, he thought, eyeing the full steaming trays in the cafeteria, that they couldn’t see the suffering Clark saw so clearly. In the synth’s eyes he saw the spark of intelligence. He passed one in the cafeteria, moving and speaking like a robot, following every command and a second one manning the infirmary, listening to a man in a lab coat spewing out orders with the patience of a saint.

But MacCready knew better. He knew it was only an act, just like Clark said. He knew these synths were sentient same way he knew Dogmeat was. Those weren’t empty eyes, and they were begging to be set free.

Soon they were ascending the stairs. MacCready realized how delicate this all secretly was. He wondered what other secrets lurked behind these walls. “Sometimes they fall down the electrical shafts,” Clark had informed him. “They don’t look for the bodies.”

He prayed for change, but knew that Clark would be the only one to answer them. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

Clark hit the switch and the door slid open smoothly—no sparks or grinding, decayed gears struggling to function. He turned to MacCready. “What do you think?”

“I think I still don’t believe it,” he answered, afraid to touch anything lest he disturb the clean, gleaming surfaces.

He stepped over and helped him out of his trench coat. He hit another switch and the blinds obediently shuttered closed. Of course they did.

“Shower’s this way, Mac.”

“Come again?” MacCready blurted out. He blushed and removed his hat. How could Clark already be so comfortable here, and yet endure the Commonwealth above?

He tilted his head toward the back chamber and MacCready obliged. The chamber was small, but no less gorgeous in his eyes. Curiously he touched the knob on the toilet but it didn’t flush.

“They have sensors in the bowl. Won’t flush unless it’s, uh, full.” MacCready cocked an eyebrow. “It helps to conserve water,” Clark clarified.

Another press of a miraculous switch and the shower door whirred open. “Well?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever taken a shower before,” MacCready mumbled.

“No time like the present,” Clark said, stripping off his shirt.

“Doesn’t look like there’s enough room for two in there.”

Clark flashed him a mischievous grin. “I was kinda counting on that.”

MacCready pointed an accusing finger. “You’re just bribing me with sexual favors now,” he accused. Clark undid his belt and his trousers fell to the floor.

MacCready followed suit, save for the buckle getting snagged on his growing erection. “And it’s working.”

Once they were both stripped down, MacCready took a deep hard look at himself in the mirror. If he didn’t look like a sore thumb before, he certainly did then. He was convinced that the dirt and grime was so embedded in his skin he wouldn’t be able to get it out, even with Institute soap.

“We’ll do two cycles,” Clark said, coming up behind him and letting his own bobbing cock make its entrance.

They both went under the warm spray. It was nothing like MacCready has ever felt before—it was wasteful, luxurious, relaxing, everything the wasteland wasn't. His skin tingled as Clark rubbed the soap into his skin and laughed when he pinched his sides. Watching the dirt and grime spiral down the drain, he could not escape the sensation that part of him went down with it. How else could he describe it? His life, from the caves of Little Lamplight to the encounters on the streets of Boston, had never been far from sweat and dirt. 

He felt Clark gnaw at his shoulder and the back of his neck near his earlobe. He had a few good inches on MacCready. He felt sheltered and protected and clean. He turned around to face Clark and gathered soap in his own hands. He addressed every part of him—calves, thighs, head and shoulders, the curve of his cock and the cleft of his ass until he too was clean and skin clear.

Slowly, in the cramped quarters of the shower, Clark made his way to his knees, taking MacCready's hard cock in his mouth and bobbing up and down beneath the spray. It was too indulgent. He wrung Clark's hair beneath his fingers, feeling almost too hot as Clark worked on him. 

It didn't take long for him to climax. He watched his semen circle the drain and disappear. Clark rose up again and pillaged his mouth with his tongue, reveling in MacCready's whimpers and moans as the last aftershocks fled his body. He felt a finger press against his hole and he turned around, grinding against Clark. With another soapy hand and thick fingers, he made quick work of preparing MacCready. 

Pressing into him, MacCready felt stars erupt inside. The curve hit him just right and he pressed himself against the glass, debauched despite his newfound cleanliness. Clark's other hand wound around, jerking MacCready, who was already ready for more. 

"Can't—can't believe we're doing this here," MacCready uttered as Clark set a hard pace. 

Clark leaned in close and dragged his tongue around the shell of MacCready's right ear. "We have this place to ourselves," he said low and bestial. 

With that, MacCready whimpered and came a second time. He felt Clark groan behind him. He pulled out and spilled onto the smooth tiles. 

"Never knew a shower could make you feel so dirty," MacCready chuckled as the warm spray faded. They were left in the stall wet and satisfied.

The feeling didn't last long, however, there was still the task of meeting Clark's son remaining. He buttoned up MacCready’s shirt and helped him into his vest. Everything had been freshly laundered and delivered by a kind synth; Clark had taken to calling him Mercer and the synth played along. MacCready almost didn’t recognize his own clothing, which Clark had purchased for him in Diamond City.

“Always thought these pants were gray,” he said, pinching the khaki’s to inspect them.

“Are you ready?” Clark asked as he slipped his tie into a clean knot.

“It feels like I’m meeting your parents," he scoffed.

He kissed him on the forehead. “They would’ve loved you.”

MacCready smiled and followed Clark through door and down the winding staircase. They crossed the middle corridor. Eyes again were on them, the two men in slacks and button-ups, still so completely out of place, but neither cared.

However, as Clark was about to lead him into Shaun’s quarters, MacCready stopped in his tracks. “What if he doesn’t like me?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I just feel like...I’m stepping on Nora’s toes again. She should be the one meeting Shaun, not me.”

Clark frowned and turned to him. “We’ve talked about this, Mac.” He draped his arm over MacCready’s shoulders. “You’re not replacing Nora. No one can replace her, but no one can replace you either.”

MacCready blushed. “Thanks. I—I needed to hear that.”

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

They stepped through the door. Shaun was waiting, seated near his desk, pouring over papers and reports. He steadied himself against the desk and stood to meet them.

“You must be Robert,” he said, glancing toward Clark. “It’s an honor to meet you at last.”

His handshake was as firm as he could muster.

“Nice to meet you too, Shaun.” Father led them over to the suppering nook and invited them to sit. Clark helped Shaun ease into his seat.

“I was just telling your dad here that it kinda feels like I’m meeting his parents.”

Sean chuckled, though he didn’t smile. “Given that I’m nearly thirty years my father’s senior, I would say that is a fair appraisal.” He glanced at Shaun again. “You are younger than I expected, Robert. Tell me, when were you born?”

“Around...2265? We didn’t have an accurate calendar in Little Lamplight. I’m around...23?”

Clark didn’t avoid Shaun’s eyes. He knew MacCready was young. Youth, however, quickly evaporated in the wasteland. He didn’t expect Shaun to understand; in some ways, MacCready was more worldly and vivacious than the so-called “adults” who resided in this gilded cage.

“Did you have any way of telling the date?” Shaun asked. “Not knowing and arranging one’s time can be quite disorienting.”

Clark scoffed. “You can say that again.”

MacCready stroke the arm of Clark’s gray suit. “Just an old computer. Bucket of rust and bolts. We never messed with the date or much else on it unless we had to. Scared we would mess something up.”

“I’m sorry, who are ‘we,’ exactly?” Shaun asked.

“Robert grew up in unusual circumstances.”

“As one would expect, father,” Shaun added with a tinge of bitterness.

MacCready, sensing the tension mount already, chuckled a bit more loudly than he intended. “Well, ‘unusual’ kinda implies that there’s a _norm_ in the wasteland, don’t you think?”

Shaun nodded. “I’m afraid I would have to agree.” He began pouring them tea. “But tell me of your upbringing, Robert. I would very much like to hear it.”

MacCready took a breath. He decided to be as honest as possible. He began regaling him of his time as Little Lamplight’s mayor. He told Shaun of their deep mutual trust, the squabbles and scouting, the creeping fear and the keen, naive sense of community the children had cultivated. He neither embellished, nor down-played any of their strifes and hopes.

Shaun, for his part, listened thoughtfully, patiently gathering his thoughts and questions. Clark studied him carefully. This was the fate Shaun had escaped and they both knew it. He was grateful his son had escaped the squalor and struggle. He wondered what Shaun had lost, however. Perhaps some humanity.

“I was rescued,” Shaun had insisted so long ago. Still, it didn’t feel like a rescue. Clark still envisioned, however unwillingly, Nora’s limp hands falling as Shaun was spirited away. To Clark it was a burden, to Shaun almost a story. It was strange to him that they both didn’t carry the same heavy ache, that Shaun only considered it from afar while Clark was so close. Perhaps that was why he was so drawn to MacCready. He bore that soreness of heart but went on living.

Shaun was listening intently, but Clark knew he still considered the wasteland to be a hopeless cause. Clark knew he would be different. He would be a shepherd for all the Little Lamplights yet to be discovered.

“And when it came time to leave...it was the most scared I’ve ever been in my life.”

“An intriguing arrangement, Robert.” His tea had gone cold. “What of your cultural enrichment? I trust you all endeavored to educate yourselves in some manner.”

MacCready nodded. “We had a whole archive of holotapes. A lot of them didn’t work, but there were these plays. We used to read them and put on shows for one another, when things got too grim and dark.”

“Who was the playwright?”

“Shakespeare,” MacCready said. The word felt odd coming out after so many years. “We had about five or six of his tapes and some history and science. Never could get a good handle on the science stuff.”

It wasn’t nearly enough. However, when Shaun saw the slightly proud grin on his father’s face, he couldn’t bring himself to interject. “It’s good to hear you enjoyed reading them,” he said. “I must admit I am impressed. That material perplexes some adults, let alone children.”

“A lot of learning takes place outside the classroom.”

“As I’m daily reminded,” Shaun said with a hint of melancholy. The young man’s cheeks were ruddy and windswept, but behind those eyes crackled such imagination and vigor. He knew neither would make it if they switched places.

“It’s kinda funny. We grew up in two different caves,” MacCready said, looking to Clark, “and look how differently we turned out.”

“Did you have any family apart from your adopted brothers and sisters?”

Clark knew what he was really getting at.

MacCready grew withdrawn and quiet. His hat crumbled in his hands. “I’m a widower. I didn’t know my parents.” He looked to Clark, whose eyes were trained solely on him. He nodded. “And I have a son. His name is Duncan. He’s almost six.”

Suddenly Shaun was more rapt with that fact than with Clark’s husband. “You have a son? At your age and in your circumstances?”

“I mean, it wasn’t on purpose,” MacCready said.

“Where is he now, your son?”

“He’s down near D.C. I left him with a group of farmers I had done work for. My line of work was too dangerous for him. I couldn’t let what happened to my wife happen to Duncan.”

“I’m certain he appreciates the sacrifice,” Shaun said, looking over to Clark.

Shaun shifted in his seat. “My condolences for your loss. What was her name?”

“Lucy. Met her in LIttle Lamplight. She was a medic. Traveled for a bit afterwards. Then she was gone,” MacCready said in his own curt way. Clark knew it was hard for him to recount.

Shaun wanted to say they ought not to be surprised, but could not bring himself to do it. It was too cruel. Clark folded his hand in MacCready’s and they all shared a moment of silence.

“Surely you have many who share your suffering,” Shaun conjectured.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Clark interjected.

“I’m only stating that tragedy is common, given the state of affairs above.”

“Don’t say ‘state of affairs’ like you had nothing to do with it,” Clark started, “Standing idly by at the sidelines doesn’t relieve you of responsibility, son.”

“There’s that fire again,” Shaun replied calmly. “Though I’d be quick to remind you that _prioritizing_ responsibilities is a taxing ordeal, the rigors of which you will experience daily during your tenure.” He nodded toward MacCready. “And sometimes letting go is part of the deal.”

“I didn’t abandon my son, if that’s what you’re getting at,” MacCready shot back.

“Now, really--”

“Don’t tell me that I don’t know how to prioritize,” Clark said, joining in. “We were so broke at times, we had to decide whether to get a mouthful of half-way decent water or a small bloatfly kabob. When I enlisted, I chose a shot at a better future instead of spending time with your mother. Don’t be so condescending toward my husband’s sacrifices. Not after everything he and I have been through.”

Shaun fell quiet. Many things ran through his mind; the foyer packed with refugees from above, expansive structures and settlements above ground, Clark holding Duncan up to see the synth gorillas, dirty hands smudging the glass. His father smiling and content, hair graying at the edges. All things to ponder.

“I apologize,” Shaun said at last. “I did not mean to offend you. We are from two different worlds. We both measure success and wellness on completely different rubrics. I know you, Robert, have succeeded and prospered where others would have given themselves to despair. And you, father, we both know what you have lost.”

The phone rang near his monitor. Shaun stood up and let it ring. “I did want my first meeting with Robert to go this way. If you’ll excuse me.” He walked upstairs toward to answer the call.

Clark sank back in his seat and covered his eyes with his forearm. He felt MacCready’s hand trail up his thigh and up his side.

“I’m sorry, Mac,” Shaun said. “I didn’t know my son would insult you that way.”

“Nah, I was just being defensive.”

“I guess he and I are going through all the motions. I was overdue for a shouting match with my kid. Just thought it would be about a fender bender and not...all of this.”

MacCready frowned. “I guess this is what culture shock feels like. I wonder if Duncan and I would really fit in around here.”

“It’s a real thing to wonder about,” Clark offered, turning to MacCready “I know you would be safer down here. I don’t want to force you into anything but...”

MacCready’s lips grazed his. “But what?”

“But I’d like to meet Duncan. I want to know my son. I mean, we’re both thinking the same thing, aren’t we?”

MacCready looked long and hard into his eyes. It wouldn’t be hard to bring Duncan up here. Having him live underground, where everyone would always consider him an outsider, on the other hand, would be something to think about.

Shaun’s footsteps descended. They looked up and met with a pale countenance.

“It appears this conversation will have to be put on hold, father. The Brotherhood of Steel has found the Railroad’s former headquarters. They’re moving more quickly than we anticipated. We must act now.”

“Whatever it is you’re planning,” MacCready said, standing up to face Shaun, “I’m going with your dad. I can’t sit by while he throws himself at those assholes.”

Shaun considered that for a mere moment. “Follow me.”

 

\+ + + + +

 

Three sets of power armor collapsed into the dust. A burst of hot plasma whizzed by MacCready’s head, eroding the face of their third virus drone. He adjusted his aim. Four bullets and another member of the Brotherhood was down. Her suit sparked and crackled in the dust.

Down below, on the rafters, Clark tore through their ranks, one shell at a time. He had no choice but to confront them in the burning pits below. The synths put up a good fight, but for every Brotherhood soldier that fell, two appeared. Clark’s heart lurched as he saw their plastic parts scatter left and right.

“Clark, what the hell are you doing!?” MacCready shouted, but to no avail.

He placed another round in an initiate’s skull, blood scattering on the cement far, far below. He heard the ring of an empty shotgun canister. Clark was running low on ammo. He rolled into cover, tossing a pulse grenade over his shoulder. Clark watched the green sparks fly over the low cement wall.

The bright explosion blinded MacCready. He ducked behind the corrugated steel, rubbing his eyes. Just then the whir of a minigun buzzed amidst the gunfire.

The virus-bearing synth diligently worked behind him. They didn’t have enough time. He watched as the empty bullet box floated off the platform. He had to make last these rounds count. He traced the rotating barrel of the minigun and lodged three bullets in the rotor, jamming the gun, however temporarily.

Clark’s canister clicked into place. He hopped over the barrier, dashing to the heavy’s side. For one brief moment, he saw Glory’s white hair from beneath the heavy’s headgear. He nearly stopped in his tracks. No, it couldn’t be her. She’s gone. He and MacCready had a mission to complete. He shook the image from his mind, firing three plasma-infused shells into his side. The armor sparked and burst. The heavy crashed into the gravel.

Three more emerged from terminal A. Their guns began to spin, faster and faster. Clark threw his last plasma grenade. They covered their faces to shield themselves from the blast. He fired his last rounds, disabling all but one minigun. Clark dashed up the rafters.

“99% complete,” the synth rattled behind MacCready.

“About time!” MacCready cried.

The metal grates shook beneath their feet. Liberty Prime stirred beside them and powered on. Clark felt the rumble of its processors readying it’s laser cannon. Clark dashed over to MacCready, tackling him out of the line of Liberty Prime’s sensors just as the blinding beam of light tore through the grates, leaving behind molten metal and scorched earth as the mech adjusted its aim.

The beam swung wide and eventually shot up into the air. MacCready, wind knocked from his chest by Clark’s mass, watched as the hull of the massive airshift burst into raging, choking flame.

Clark’s pipboy whirred and suddenly they were consumed in a flash of blue light.

 

\+ + + + +

 

“The virus upload is at 82%,” Madison Li reported from Shaun’s terminal. “I estimate four more minutes and it will be complete.”

“They’re really something aren’t they?” Allie Filmore said, tipping a small glass of water to Shaun’s lips.

He breathed in, lungs brittle, barely functional. He felt lightheaded. “I did not make my decision lightly,” he said softly. “My father is a...remarkable individual.”

“He will make a fine successor,” Allie reassured him. “And an effective ambassador as well, should the need arise.”

“Yes...that is what I had in mind as well,” Shaun said weakly. “His work with the Minutemen has garnered him much renown and esteem from his peers above."

Madison merely grunted in agreement as she monitored the virus synth’s progress. 87%. Shaun sputtered. Allie wiped the water from his chin and beard.

“I would like some privacy,” he said. “I must prepare myself for my father’s report.”

“Certainly, director.”

“Please, call me Shaun. No need for formalities at this stage."

“Yes, Shaun. Would you like anything else before we...depart?” Allie asked, brow furrowing.

“Send the child synth to my quarters. I need to speak to him. He needs preparation as well.”

Madison’s hands ran across the keyboard. “Shaun is on his way up,” she reported.

 

\+ + + + +

 

They landed supine on the craggy shore. From afar, the ensuing blaze lit the sky like a sunset. Clark scrambled to his feet, pulling up MacCready. They were silent as the massive airship plummeted down on the airport. The distant gunfire and explosions seemed so small from this distance. It was disconcerting and beautiful what they could accomplish. And this was only one step of many for the Institute.

MacCready stood on his tiptoes, wrapping his arms around Clark’s shoulders, unblinking as the airship made contact. The shockwave rippled across the water. They felt the impact in all its terrifying beauty.

They stood there gazing upon the blaze—arms, legs, all parts exhausted and spent.

“I have to admit, you had me worried back there,” MacCready said at last. The flames were unceasing before them.

Clark turned around, refolding himself in MacCready’s grasp. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“What happens now?”

“The road is paved,” Clark said simply. “The Institute is safe.”

MacCready was quiet.

“We’re safe too,” Clark said, placing his hands on MacCready’s shoulders. “The Brotherhood won’t be knocking on our door anytime soon...and neither will the Railroad. It’s done.”

“Is it?” MacCready asked. He wasn’t bitter or mean, but earnest in his question. Clark knew it was a legitimate and that in the Commonwealth, there would always be lingering danger. His son was quick to remind him of that as well.

“For now. We need to report back to Shaun. Figure out our next steps.” He stepped away, but MacCready held him close.

“Take me with you.”

Clark smiled, wiping the sweaty strands of hair from MacCready’s forehead as blue light consumed them.

 

\+ + + + +

 

They were met by Allie, who had her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked upon Clark’s scorched armor, the fine trickles of sweat running down their faces and the accompanying spatter of oil and blood—indications of their handiwork forged above. Clark was almost regal in his armor and his husband as well. It pained her to deliver the news to one so close to Father.

“You should hurry,” she started, voice wavering. “I don’t think Father is going to hold on for much longer.”

Clark looked to MacCready, who solemnly removed his cap. “You should meet him one on one,” he said. He kissed Clark’s cheek. “I’ll be nearby.”

Without another word, Clark sprinted up the stairs, not bothering to holster his weapon or to wipe away the soot, grime and blood from his face.

The door hissed open and he found Shaun lying in his bed near the bannister. He was gazing at the glass elevator, the shining walls, everything he helped to create.

He turned to his father, eyes wet and piercing. Clark tore off his goggles. “No need to give a report, father. You’re being here is indication enough of your success.”

“Shaun...”

“I’m glad it worked. I’m glad you’re safe.”

Clark knelt at Shaun’s bedside. “Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need?”

“I’m fine. I have all the comfort I need.” His voice was fading, weak, so unlike the commanding, sleek presence Clark had encountered when he first encountered his son. He felt his heart breaking. He felt Shaun’s hand over his glove.

“Don’t worry about me, Father. You need to look ahead toward the future—the Institute’s future, her people, your husband—Robert. It’s all up to you now.”

“Will it be enough? Will  _I_ be enough to take your place, son?"

Shaun rested his head, thinking one final thought. He knew what was hidden in the back room, what message the synth child would relay, would reinforce. Looking into a replica his own face, aged only ten years old, he saw a spark in those eyes. What Clark would do with it he could only imagine, but every scenario his fading psyche could offer was bright, however dampened with strife they were. He knew his father could achieve what he could not for the synths. For young Shaun.

“Don’t worry about taking my place. Progress is at the heart of the Institute’s mission...I know you can accomplish what I was unable to. You need to make your own place. I know you are capable.”

Clark could almost sense the warmth and pulse fade from Shaun’s hand. He closed it softly in his. And so he delivered his final words.

“I will, son. I’ll do my best to make you proud.”

“I’m grateful for that...and for the time we’ve had together, however brief. I spent so much time wondering what you were like, and all that we missed out on, father. But perhaps...you can find out for yourself one day.”

“Shaun?”

“Thank you, father. You’ve helped a young boy achieve his dreams. I’d...I’d very much like to sleep now.”

Shaun reclined back into his pillow and shut his eyes. His hand fell limp. Clark pressed it to his cheek and wept.

 

\+ + + + +

 

MacCready found Clark in their old quarters. On his way over, he saw the doctor and two helper synths wheeling the body to the med-bay. The white sheet was drawn over Clark’s son. MacCready’s hat had crumpled in his grip.

His helmet and gear were piled up in the corner. He was seated on the bed, head cradled in his hands.

He approached slowly and seated himself next to his husband and leaned on his shoulder.

“I’ve lost Shaun...all over again.”

“Babe...”

“There was nothing I could do. Nothing he could do. Even with everything the Institute had to offer...nothing could help him.”

MacCready urged Clark to lean back. He breathed in deeply, uncertain of what to say. And whether anything he could say would comfort him.

“I’m...I’m so confused," Clark said, low and sorrowful.

“Why’s that?”

“My son...he said that I wasn’t meant to take his place. He said to make my own place...I don’t know what he meant by that.”

“Don’t think about that now. Just rest. There’s always tomorrow.”

MacCready rocked slowly back and forth as Clark’s mass shifted in his arms, seeking warmth.

“Not always.” He shuddered. “I thought we could be a family again. That I could reclaim something from my past—before the war, before the bombs fell. Put something back together again.”

“You did, in a weird way. You finally met your son. _I_ met your son.”

“And you.”

“Yeah, and me.” MacCready wiped Clark’s eyes. “I know I can’t take your wife’s place. No one can, but you’ve made a place for me. And I’ve never been happier in my life.”

Clark pressed a soft kiss on MacCready’s lips. He tasted the salt running down his cheeks. And they slept like that, entangled with one another in the dirt of the Commonwealth and the haven of the Institute.

Clark dreamt of Shaun as a boy of ten, beaming and smiling. He ran and shouted in their backyard in Sanctuary. Nora was there, Robert MacCready was there smiling, smiling in the sunlight.

The wonderful vision was interrupted by the buzz of their doorbell. Beneath them, he detected the doors slide open. Then a soft knock sounded at their bedroom door. He felt MacCready stir beside him.

“Who could that be?” he asked sluggishly.

Clark switched on a light. The person behind the door knocked again. MacCready wiped his eyes as Clark approached the door.

Behind it was Shaun’s synth double. His heart nearly leapt in his chest. He remembered his first encounter with the young synth, the panic in his eyes when Clark claimed to be his real father, before he knew that he wasn’t his true son. How different _this_ Shaun’s face was now. It was accepting, welcoming even, despite Clark’s ragged appearance.

The boy held out a holotape.

“Father’s gone, isn’t he?” young Shaun asked.

He felt MacCready approach him from behind.

“Yes...I’m afraid so, Shaun,” Clark said quietly.

Shaun frowned as Clark took the holotape. “I’m going to miss him.”

“I’m going to miss him too, Shaun. So much.” He pinched his brow. The wound bled, so fresh.

“Are you sad, dad?”

Clark’s eyes widened and he looked down at the holotape. Dad?

“Father told me not to listen to it. I always liked him. He was always really nice to me, so I listened.”

“No, this can’t be right,” he said, pushing past young Shaun.

“What’s wrong, dad?” Shaun asked, hands curling up. “Are you mad at me?”

MacCready thought quickly, and knelt down to address the young synth. “No, no, of course not, buddy.” Clark pulled a pair of headphones over his ears, listening to Shaun’s message. He listened again, glancing toward Shaun.

MacCready was still comforting him as he went through the message another time, trying to understand, trying to wrap his head around the whole thing; Shaun had always insisted that these creations weren’t sentient, why the change of heart? Why now?

He pulled the headphones off and slowly approached them.

“...Son?” Clark asked cautiously. The bright, balmy haze of summer from his dreams was still floating in his weary mind.

“Yeah, dad?” Shaun asked softly.

He looked toward MacCready and handed him the headset. His eyes widened as he finished listening.

“I—I am just feeling a little overwhelmed right now.” He hoped the process wasn’t painful, that this synth wasn’t confused. Gabriel’s hateful eyes flashed in his mind, but they were the polar opposite of what young Shaun’s were. He knew his son must have used a safer procedure. How long had he been planning this? They moved to the couch. Clark collapsed into it, still processing.

“It’s okay, dad. I understand. You just became the new director and...I know Father was important to you.”

“That means a lot to your dad, buddy,” MacCready offered, trying to calm the situation.

“And there’s Duncan to worry about too,” Shaun turned to address MacCready.

“How do you know about Duncan?” MacCready asked, awestruck.

“You told me about him, remember? You said he’s still working on a farm up above as a side project, dad. But, you’re right, I don’t know a whole lot about him. I haven’t met him yet. It’s weird, my own stepbrother and I haven’t even met him yet.”

Clark’s eyes widened and he gripped MacCready’s arm. He gazed long and hard into MacCready’s eyes. This was an opportunity, however bluntly delivered. A place in the world to call their own. MacCready understood.

“Duncan’s more used to life above ground, little guy,” Clark offered, voice wavering. “It’s his home. He wants to meet you too, Shaun. Maybe soon we’ll go get him.”

MacCready’s heart beat faster and faster. He looked around at the chrome surfaces, listened to the running water, smelled the clean, filtered air. Clark’s geiger counter was silent, and just in the next room was a sink with clean, running water.

“Yeah, we will,” he offered slowly, gaze not breaking with Clark’s. “Once things settle down around here, we will go get him.”

Shaun’s smile was bright. “I always wanted a little brother.” Shaun sprang up from the couch. “I should go get ready for Duncan.”

Clark stood and followed him. “He isn’t coming _yet_ , Shaun.”

The synth—his son—turned around. “I know, but there’s no time like the present, dad!” He scampered off, footfalls echoing down the hallway.

“Maybe this is what your son had meant,” MacCready said, turning Clark around to face him. “He has a helluva way of dropping bombs, doesn’t he?”

Clark leaned into him. “He does, yeah.”

“I know this ain’t the family you set out to find, but the Commonwealth always has surprises up its sleeve.”

“Either it’s a radscorpion nest under your sleeping bag or a sudden family,” Clark sighed, running his hand through his dark locks.

“Are you okay? So much has gone down in the last couple of weeks...I need to know you’re still with me.”

Clark nodded, smiling for the first time in days. “I plan on walking this earth with you till the day I die, Mac,” he said.

MacCready nudged him, resting his forehead against Clark’s.

“That’s my line, mungo.”

That was when the full brunt of it hit Clark. He sighed deeply, breathing in MacCready and the filtered, subterranean air. This was his life, not one he had chosen, but one worth living. 

As the final preparations for Shaun's internment commenced, he couldn't put a finger on what he was thinking precisely. From the moment he woke from his cryogenic slumber, the world was bewildering and familiar all at once. He looked away as Shaun's body entered the crematorium. To think, up above he and Nora strolled the streets of Boston, and that, hundreds of years later, he and MacCready walked the same, worn paths. Perhaps behind them, the soft footsteps of Duncan and young Shaun would follow. 

But war, war never changes. He knew he would have to remain vigilant and careful. The Brotherhood of Steel may have gotten the message, but there were countless others who remained the threaten him and his family. That was the only certainty to be found in the wasteland.

"You were always a helluva fighter," Nora used to say and MacCready was quick to repeat. He felt MacCready's hand fold in his and the brush of his stubble against his cheek. For now, he had to have faith. For them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> There may or may not be a sequel to this. I would like to explore the dynamic between these two dads and their respective, adopted children. It would be weird being a child forever, no? Depending on how much time I have between work and my other writing endeavors, I will post more in this thread. No promises, though.
> 
> Also, I had to rename my Sole Survivor in this story to "Clark." In the play through I am basing this story on, I named my character "Phil" because of my undying adoration for Phil Coulson. Obviously, this may have caused some confusion. I named him after the actor instead. MacCready reminded me so much of a baby Hawkeye, that I couldn't help but fall for him.


End file.
